


sing it for them

by onceuponamoon



Series: pas de cheval [4]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Communication, Double Penetration, I haven't read Bitty's senior year just as an FYI, Kent Parson is still a softie, M/M, Polyfidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: Three years is a long time to be in a long-distance relationship.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Larissa "Lardo" Duan/Shitty Knight
Series: pas de cheval [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/242356
Comments: 24
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up 5 years late with Starbucks*
> 
> so...on the plus side, I already had 50 pages of fic written. unfortunately, it wasn't finished but i'm hoping this quarantine/pandemic business will allow me the time to get back into this headspace because i'm still in love with this verse.
> 
> love y'all & thanks for your unending patience

Three years is a long time to be in a long-distance relationship.

It’s a long time, and a lot of effort, but it’s more than worth it.

Kent does...a lot of maturing. 

He finally (officially) comes out to the Aces management at that backyard barbeque, with the help of one Eric Zimmermann, just to make sure that contingency plans are in place for whenever _Deadspin_ inevitably catches wind of how much time he spends with Jack Zimmermann’s husband. He works hard, plays hard, and spends as much time in Providence with Jack and Eric as possible.

Articles are written, cheating is speculated, interviews are requested, but Jack keeps mum on it. 

A while after that, Jack wins a Stanley Cup, kisses Eric on center ice, and, in the heat of all the excitement, gives an interview mentioning how he wished Kent could be there with them. 

The following season, Kent’s the one who goes full throttle (at the urging of Kelly in PR) and gives an interview with one of the junior reporters, explains that he loves two guys and the two guys love him back. The kid’s confused, of course, asking what that meant...and all Kent could come up with on the spot was calling them his ‘team.’ The kid’s super enthusiastic about finally understanding and it makes Kent give that super soft smile he can’t quell to save his life. 

The press eats it up. 

Overall, it’s almost as anticlimactic as Jack had said it would be.

And finally, Eric applies and auditions for a spot on Food Network Star, makes it onto the show, and _wins_ the whole damn thing. 

Since then, there have been a lot of contracts and a lot of meetings, but Kent’s pretty sure that Eric and his lawyer (who, apparently, Eric and Jack went to college with) are ironing out something that’ll get Eric a show kind of like _The Pioneer Woman_ , except a glimpse into the life of a hockey spouse instead of a rancher. Eric’s Twitter gets verified and everything. It’s super legit.

The most important thing, however, happens just as soon as post-season starts after the Falcs lose out on a wild card spot. Eric sets up a Skype call for Jack (who’s still kind of hopeless with his phone) and Jack says, tinny through the speaker, “ _I’m supposed to let Pat and Georgia know my decision today. About whether I sign an extension._ ”

Kent keeps quiet, hoping desperately that Jack will come to Vegas, but Eric’s squealing, screeching something into the phone that comes across as mostly static and excited Southern noises. Laughing, Kent says, “I think you know what we want,” and then keeps his fingers crossed.

Jack’s laugh comes through first, a rusty chuckle that warms Kent even after ten-plus years of hearing it, and then says, “ _Just wanted to make sure._ ”

*

From there it’s a whirlwind of coordinating schedules, setting up moving dates, talking with agents and management and family members and then finally – fucking _finally_ – Jack and Eric move to Vegas. They settle into their home-away-from-home so seamlessly that the media attention is only minimal. Mostly, instead of focusing on their personal lives, management is playing up the image of Kent and Jack back together again as an unstoppable duo, like Malkin and Crosby. 

Kent’s thrilled, of course, because it means he gets to spend the first summer in forever actually spending time with both Eric _and_ Jack, instead of one or the other.

“This is the literal definition of true bliss,” Kent mumbles into Eric’s hair, spooned in tight behind him while KP purrs on the pillow between Kent and Jack. 

Jack’s reading on his laptop, muttering stuff like, “Interesting,” and humming under his breath, his left hand idly cupping Kent’s hip. Anytime Kent squirms a little bit, Jack squeezes his hand and Eric sighs a little bit. Kent honestly can’t think of a time where he’s ever been more content. 

“It is,” Eric belatedly responds. “Will you play with my hair?”

Kent rakes his nails softly over the shorn sides of Eric’s hair up into the longer bits at the top; Bitty practically purrs. He’s halfway to dozing off himself, fingers slowing, when Jack makes another interested noise.

“What are you reading?” Kent asks him, only half-annoyed. And Jack takes long enough to respond that Kent has to look over his shoulder. “Dude.”

Cheeks a little pink, Jack clears his throat and then says, “The surrogacy process.”

At that Kent can’t help but sit straight up, startling Eric out of his impromptu nap and dislodging Jack’s hand. “Seriously?” he asks, hardly recognizing his voice. “Wait, you mean –”

“Yeah,” Jack says with a shrug. “So that when we’re ready, we’re…ready. I don’t know how soon you two would like to start having kids, but I figure the first one should probably be born in June or maybe July, as long as it’s after playoffs and we’re all able to –”

Kent doesn’t really mean to, but he cuts Jack off with a kiss, yanking him in by the stretched neck of his t-shirt, pulling him down and scaring KP away in the process. Jack’s laptop slides onto Kent’s leg and Eric gives a happy little sigh after shifting in the bed, but Kent can’t find it anywhere in himself to care. He’s kissing Jack who has been, apparently, very seriously thinking about becoming a father with them. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Kent murmurs against Jack’s mouth, “Okay, go on.”

Jack, with eyelids gone half-mast, gives him that tiny little grin that makes Kent’s heart pound and his stomach flutter. “I’ll be thirty next summer. I know you two are younger than me, but.” He shrugs. “I’m ready. I’m ready when you guys are.”

Eric gives a snort. “Kent’s been ready for _years_ , Jack,” he says, “an’ I’ve been talkin’ with Shitty. He thinks he’ll be able to work out somethin’ to where I can get filmed here. At home.”

“You could,” Kent chokes, heart giving another excited flutter, “You could have a show from home. You wouldn’t have to go anywhere?”

“Nope. Not unless I wanna guest star to make some extra cash.” Eric grins and Kent flops back against the pillows, hands on his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure it’d just be a pretty minimal camera crew, lights and makeup, stuff like that. They’ll supply whatever ingredients I need, an’ I’ll just get to bake an’ make cocktails.”

“You’ll be living the good life, eh?” Jack teases.

Eric shrugs, grinning. “Wouldn’t have to be away from home as much. That way I’d be here…for our kids. Which is what I want.”

And, yep, okay, Kent tries really hard to stifle it, but snot is about to leak down his face, so he sniffles really loud and then both Eric and Jack are looking at him like he’s grown another head. Kent covers his face with his hands. He squirms away (unsuccessfully) when Eric tries to uncover his face and Jack jabs a finger below his ribs. 

“ _Stop_ ,” he says, and then, “Shut up, I can’t help it; I’m really happy,” whenever their team effort finally manages to reveal Kent’s splotchy face, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

“What a fucking sap,” Jack says, elbowing Kent in the side as he winks at Eric. He bends to press a kiss to Kent’s cheek, softening the blow.

“Wait,” Eric says, “I wanna hear more about the process. We—we’re havin’ ‘em through a surrogate, right? At least the first ones. We can always adopt later, once our biological ones are grown.” Eric blinks all innocently, and Kent is arrested by the thought of having a sort of _Cheaper by the Dozen_ scenario, house full to bursting with kids of all ages, knowing for a fact that Eric would back him up on that wish. 

Kent remembers coaching kids with Jack and – _god_ , he just. He can’t wait to see Jack holding a tiny newborn, supporting a four-month old’s back as they sit up for the first time, holding onto a small hand as they take their first steps on wobbly legs. It’s going to be incredible. Throughout the explanation, Kent maybe checks out a bit, too busy envisioning their kids learning how to bake, skating for the first time, running through sprinklers in the backyard...to really listen to the whole process. Like. Excuse him for being impatient, but he’s been wanting this for upwards of ten years. He just wants the kids to _be_ here already.

Somewhere between researching an agency and sending the information to their lawyer, Kent dozes off, dreaming of little girls with Jack’s eyes and boys with Eric’s pointy chin.

*

In the morning, Kent really only wakes up because Jack stubs his toe on the doorframe on his way into the bathroom and can’t quite muffle a curse. Because he sleeps like the dead, Eric’s still snoring quietly, hair all disheveled against the pillow, tank top tan line visible in the strip of light from the cracked bathroom door. 

He hears the toilet flush and then the shower starts up.

It’s _four AM_.

“ _Crisse_ ,” Kent grumbles to himself. 

It doesn’t take a lot of pep-talking himself for Kent to get up, use the toilet, brush his teeth, and nudge up behind Jack in the shower. Jack doesn’t so much as flinch when Kent wraps his arms around him, but he does sigh, tipping his head forward until water streams from the point of his hair. Kent digs his chin into the tight spot between Jack’s shoulder-blades. 

“What are you doing up so early?” Kent asks, reaching out with one hand to grab the shampoo.

Jack answers, “Gotta call Shitty before he goes to work.” His voice echoes off the tiles. 

“…that’s the lawyer one, right?” He knows the business analysts out in Boston are Ransom and Holster, even if he isn’t one hundred percent on which one is which.

Nodding, Jack huffs a laugh and moves a bit out of the way, letting Kent rinse his hair. He’d grabbed Eric’s by accident; now he’s going to smell like Dove all day instead of Old Spice. “Thought I might go for a run afterwards,” Jack says, cupping Kent’s hip once he’s moved down to his chest and underarms. “Want to join me?”

Kent hums in the negative, remembering that he’s supposed to get in some ice time with Rader before they hit the gym with the trainers. “You know we have a perfectly good treadmill downstairs, right? Also, you’re literally showering. Why ruin the clean?”

“It’s not the same,” Jack complains, opening the glass door to the shower and reaching for a towel. He steps out, raises his voice over the sound of the spray while Kent finishes washing up. “Want me to make you a protein shake?”

“Sure, babe,” Kent answers.

He wraps things up, dries off, finds some clothes that Eric won’t tut about, and then goes to find Jack in the office, light from his laptop playing off of his ridiculous cheekbones while KP naps beside it. His brows are furrowed and he’s clearly listening intently to whatever is being mumbled to him from the Skype call, but his expression clears a bit, goes a little dopey when he looks up and notices Kent in the doorway. He’d just been planning on sitting across from the desk, feet kicked up, but Jack motions for Kent to come around and say hi.

Dude on the screen doesn’t actually look like a lawyer. He’s got a distinctive, distinguished mustache and hair that’s tied back in a bun, tie-dye tank top revealing an alarmingly hilarious farmer’s tan. Kent recognizes him after a beat; he’s the one who sent Jack the weird painting of a vagina (or a flower, according to Bitty, but it’s definitely a vagina) that’s hanging in the living room. It was painted by the chick who royally kicked Kent’s ass at flip-cup. Right. He’d missed their wedding last season because of Finals, but Bitty and Jack had had a good time.

“Oh, hey, man,” Kent says, proffering a little wave, “How’s the wife?”

“ _Fan-fuckin’-tastic, Parson, thanks for asking. You want in on this non-disclosure action, bro?_ ”

Kent shoots a look at Jack, then gives a little shrug. “Hit me.”

The spiel goes on, and Jack asks questions that Kent doesn’t think to ask, and then Shitty signs off, promising that he’ll email the contract just as soon as his associate gets it finished. Jack’s got this manic gleam in his eyes and, Kent has about two seconds to lean over and disconnect the call because Jack always forgets how, then he’s tugging Kent in, hugging him so tightly that it kind of hurts to breathe. Jack presses kisses, little pecks to Kent’s face, catching on stubble since Kent was too lazy to shave. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ loser,” Kent says, helplessly grinning, “Oh, my god.”

“Gonna be dads, Kenny.”

Jack reaches up to smooth Kent’s hair back from his forehead and Kent says, “I _know_.”

*

Finding an agency isn’t all that hard, but finding one that’s accepting of three dads instead of just two is trying, and finding one that Jack approves of is harder still.

But it turns out that the one Jack finally decides on is kind of perfect, if based all the way out in Boston. 

Between training and the upcoming convention and even more corresponding between their various agencies (Aces, Food Network, _and_ the surrogacy agency) Kent falls into a jittery, anticipatory exhaustion. It’s gotten to the point that Pat won’t answer him unless it’s strictly about hockey, Eric has delved into some serious distraction tactics, and Jack mostly just blinks and makes that constipated face before muttering under his breath about Kent being so impatient. Which, _hello_ , Kent can understand the Quebecois.

Kent sighs. “Oh.” 

Jack reaches across the counter and ruffles Kent’s hair, eyes still focused on his laptop. 

Though they’ve got plenty of rooms – an actual office, a couple of dens, and even a perfectly good enclosed patio with tons of table space and chaise lounges and papasan chairs – they always seem to migrate back into the kitchen, full of rich and sweet scents and cozy as hell now that Eric’s always in the process of creating some new recipe and Skyping with Suzanne. 

“ _Oh, is that Kent?_ ” she asks, slightly fuzzy on the screen. Suzanne waves, beaming in that Bittle-characteristic way. “ _Hi, hon! How’d you like that toffee crunch cake?_ ”

Kent tries not to swallow his tongue, remembering. “Eric told you he added the hazelnut drizzle, right? I died and went to heaven, Suzanne.”

“Came up with it myself,” Eric says, pointing at the laptop screen with a wooden spoon. He’s got eggs on top of flour on top of butter and Kent has no idea what he’s making, but he knows it’s going to be good. “Don’t you dare try ‘n’ take credit for that one, Mother.”

Suzanne’s laugh is mostly a hand-covered giggle, caught out.

But then Eric’s brightening, looking quickly between Kent and Jack, who’s still painstakingly typing out a politically-correct email about how he absolutely will not give interviews about his love life anymore because it’s literally still the same as it was three years ago. Kent nods. Jack keeps typing.

“ _Oh, Dicky, you go ahead an’ spit it out,_ ” Suzanne says, “ _You look like you’re fixin’ to burst and I’m not gettin’ any younger here._ ”

“We’ve decided on an agency – we’ll be workin’ with a lady named Nadine,” Eric starts, words flying out a mile a minute the way they always do when he’s either really excited or really nervous. “We’ve gotta find an egg donor that matches what we want – we’re all thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ someone that looks kinda like Kent an’ me.” He goes on for a good while, telling her everything they all know about the process and how long it’ll supposedly take.

KP wanders in, sniffing at the air as she scopes out a place to nap. Kent scoops her up into his arms and breathes in the weirdly comforting cat smell of her fur, pressing a kiss between her ears as he scritches under her chin.

When he looks over, Eric’s got that slightly manic look in his eye and Jack’s gone all soft with fondness. 

By the time Eric has signed off with Suzanne, the kitchen’s overheated from the empty ovens, and Eric’s a lot farther behind in his baking process than he’d like to be, but Jack volunteers to help and – well, Kent doesn’t, mostly because he likes to watch the way Jack and Eric work together. It translates from kitchen to bedroom to ice and back again, something that Kent’s always been amazed that he’s allowed to see.

“Oh, Kenny,” Jack says, turning to look at him over his shoulder, “I told Nadine we’ve got the convention coming up; she said she could Skype us before office hours, or we could fly out afterwards and hammer out all of the details in one go.”

“It’s in Boston, right?” Eric asks, excitement gleaming in his eyes. He reaches up to thumb off a streak of flour from Jack’s forehead. “If we fly out, maybe we could go visit Shitty and Lardo. Ransom and Holster, too, if we’ve got the time.”

And, _Crisse_ , Kent’s powerless to deny Eric anything when he asks so sweetly. “Flying out might be nice,” Kent says, even though he’d much rather get shit done as early as possible. “We could make a tiny vacation out of it.”

“Alright,” Jack says, nodding. “I’ll email Nadine.”

For the rest of the evening, Eric flutters around the kitchen, nodding along to, “Say My Name,” before it switches to, “7/11,” and then he’s belting out the lyrics, shaking his hips and grabbing Kent to dance with (which pretty much just devolves into grinding and then Kent hoisting Eric up onto the countertop to make out). 

The mini-pies are flaky and sweet and perfect. 

*

“Please,” Kent breathes, “Oh god, oh god, _oh_ –” He chokes on his words, on the feeling of Jack behind him, being so slow and deliberate. Kent whines. “Eric – Eric, make him –”

“Now, honey,” Eric croons, a little breathless, “You know I ain’t gonna make him go any faster. We gotta get you nice an’ stretched out so you’re all ready for us.”

Kent can’t help it; he sobs. 

He’s already come once just from Jack’s fingers, and now he’s worked up to four, making noises about getting one of their toys to do an even more thorough job. (Kent doesn’t know how he could _be_ more thorough.) Mostly, Kent just wants them to get on with it; he feels like he’s been begging for hours and it’s gotten him nowhere. 

They’ve done this all of two times, always carefully planned out and prepared for, but Kent – he feels kind of greedy and selfish with how often he wants it. He never asks for it, is never the one to suggest it, but he’s always the first one to say yes and then sprint for the bedroom. He wants it _constantly_. Because it’s like. There’s no way the three of them could be any closer, physically and emotionally. It’s such an intimate thing and there’s nothing in the world like accepting them both into his body this way, nudging up against each other as they take him – and each other – apart from the inside out. 

But.

Eric’s on this whole, “let’s teach Kent some patience,” kick and Kent wants to _scream_.

“Please,” he says hoarsely, “I’m ready.”

Jack rumbles a pleased noise, a hum, still working his fingers in a corkscrew, probably just delighting in the familiar clutch of Kent’s body. He twists his wrist, coaxes in a little deeper. “You _are_ ready, eh?” 

Kent buries his frustrated wail into a pillow. “Oh, my _god_.”

Eric – or maybe Jack, Kent can’t really tell when he’s all keyed up like this – slaps his flank just to make him shout and shiver, and then Jack’s pulling his fingers out, pumping out more lube from the bottle and telling Kent to come sit on his lap. But Kent’s thighs are still shaking a little too much for him to do it, so he tries not to squawk when Jack slides an arm around his middle and pulls him in. 

Laughing, Eric says, “Oh, so strong, Mr. Zimmermann,” and yeah, he’s being facetious, but Kent has his number. 

Reaching behind himself, Kent pumps Eric’s dicks a few times and grins filthily at Jack when it punches the breath out of Eric, has him pressing his forehead against Kent’s shoulder blade. “Goddamn, Kent,” Eric breathes, steadying himself on Jack’s shins. “Can’t wait, darlin’, gonna be so tight, all snug against Jack.” His breath hitches when Kent gives him another unsteady up-down-twist-tease.

Jack’s reclined back against the pillows, leisurely stroking himself when Kent faces ahead again. “What are you waiting for, Kenny?” he asks.

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Zimms,” Kent says, letting go of Eric (who makes a tiny noise of loss) and, instead, reaches for Jack’s cock. 

He shakily knee-walks his way forward, wastes absolutely no time sinking down, bottoming out. His head falls back, throat working on a moan that’s more ripped out of him than anything, because – “ _Crisse_.” – that’s just what he wanted. Well. Almost. “Eric, please, c’mon, you too.” 

“I don’t know,” Eric says as Kent rocks back and forth, “Might wanna stretch you out some more.” 

His fingertips press into the center of Kent’s back, urging him to lie forward onto Jack – and hey, whatever, that’s cool with Kent because it means he gets to kiss Jack while Eric works his slender fingers in against Jack’s dick. It’s totally worth it for the way Jack groans into Kent’s mouth, shifts his hips so he bottoms out a little deeper. “Ah, _fuck_ ,” Jack says when they pull apart for breath. “ _Si bon_.” He wraps his arms around Kent’s neck and drags him into another kiss.

Whatever Eric does with his fingers nudges Jack’s dick into Kent’s prostate and – yep, Kent’s coming again already. 

He floats for a little bit, kind of half-conscious and trembling, barely aware of Jack and Eric soothing him with soft hands and gentle words until the oversensitive, overwhelming sensation fades and what’s left is this nebulous pleasure that makes him feel like a – like one of, like fuckin’ Old Faithful, or something. (A geyser. That’s what those are. Right.) Biding his time before he fucking _explodes_. He hadn’t even realized he was close.

“I’m gonna die,” Kent slurs, head lolling back on his shoulder as he tries to look forward at Jack. He really only manages to focus on the smooth expanse of Jack’s chest, the stark contrast of dark hair and a dusky pink nipple. “Best way t’go.” He lazily holds a hand out for a fist-bump and, after a giggle, one of them obliges.

All at once Kent becomes aware of Eric’s fingers again, the stretch and fullness of them in combination with Jack’s dick.

“ _Câlisse de crisse_. Kenny, _tabarnak_ ,” Jack says, cradling Kent’s face, helping him focus on Jack’s expression; he looks simultaneously concerned and in awe, all sweaty and red-faced. “You ready –”

Eric gives a tug, like he’s pulling Kent wider, almost heedless of his body’s limits, but – Eric’s more conscientious than that, Kent knows. Jack knows. _Lord_ knows, as Eric would say. So Eric keeps tugging and Kent can’t exactly make out whatever Jack is saying because his breath is too loud in his own ears, but. Eric’s got him so stretched out now that he could probably fit comfortably.

Kent’s so busy trembling, making soft, broken noises into Jack’s shoulder that he almost doesn’t hear the groan Eric lets out as he begins to slide in alongside Jack. He’s felt overfull forever. He doesn’t notice he has tears streaming down his cheeks until Jack thumbs them away, asking quietly, “ _Oké?_ ” 

What else can Kent do but nod?

He’s so fucking okay, he’s practically on another plane of existence. He has transcended okay. He’s –

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” Kent slurs, trying to reach back to pull Eric even closer, spurring some kind of movement, _any_ kind of movement. He’s close to begging. _Really_ begging. But – “Oh, _fuck_.”

Jack holds Kent to his chest, running fingers through his hair and pressing kisses to his sweaty forehead. Eric’s making these soft little whimpers and squeezing so tightly at Kent’s hips, he’ll have bruises on top of bruises, but he’s working himself inside with these shaky little pulses, and Kent can just imagine the way his eyes are squeezed shut, his nose all scrunched, mouth a soft little open-moue. It’s a look he’s come to love seeing anytime he gets to watch Eric fuck Jack, and the feeling’s got to be twice as intense like this so there’s no way Eric’s not making that adorable little face. 

As soon as Kent’s able to, when Eric is situated and Jack’s making abortive little thrusts, he looks up and meets Jack’s eyes and –

They’re actually _shimmering_. Like this is a fucking romance novel and not a random Tuesday afternoon where Eric made a mess of the kitchen with his recipe experimentation and Jack didn’t snort milk out of his nose at brunch. 

But, thankfully, reality smacks down when Jack tries to kiss Kent at the same time Eric gives a first real thrust, so instead he just bashes his nose on Kent’s forehead and then they’re collapsing into laughter while Eric’s trying to apologize profusely – that turns into moaning because _holy shit_ that is a tight squeeze. 

Jack rubs his nose, grumbling, “ _Tabarnak_ ,” but then Eric thrusts again and Kent – Kent can’t fucking stop making these horribly loud gasps and groans because it’s so fucking intense. He’s so hard again already, and it feels way too soon, but he could probably come again if he so much as breathes too hard. It’ll be dry, no doubt about it, but Christ if his body isn’t trying anyway, stomach nearly cramping and heart trying to pound right out of his chest.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s good,” Eric groans, nosing against Kent’s back. “Jus’ what I wanted.”

At that point, Eric starts really going for it. Each movement nudges Jack in deeper and Kent’s still practically shouting into Jack’s mouth while Jack keeps trying to pull him in for bruising kisses, fingers carding through Kent’s hair with enough pressure for Kent’s scalp to tingle, distracting him briefly from the way Eric’s stretching him open so wide with each quickening thrust of his hips. Groaning, Kent tries rocking back to meet Eric’s next one and – _fuck_ , it’s like every nerve ending up and down Kent’s spine is all lit up, burning bright with each and every movement.

He tries sitting up a little more, hands braced on Jack’s chest, trying to get an angle that doesn’t feel like is going to drive him so perilously close to the edge. But Jack’s reaching up, running his hands up Kent’s chest and shoulders, ending up just lightly clasped around Kent’s throat as his hips give minute little twitches that counter Eric’s.

Kent doesn’t even _know_ what kind of noises he’s making at that point; he just knows that he can’t quite shut up because he’s too busy seeing the fucking face of _God_ for the third fucking time.

Eric doesn’t get out much more than, “I can’t –” before he’s groaning, dying a little death inside Kent with his fingers digging bruises into his hip and shoulder. He shudders against Kent’s back before wrapping him up in his arms, burying his face into Kent’s skin as he comes apart. 

Jack’s really not quiet either, just focused. His brows are furrowed and his mouth is pursed into a grimace, like everything he’s seeing and feeling is too much. 

Yeah, Kent knows the feeling. 

By the time Eric softens enough to slip out, Jack’s shaking and frantic, ready to come. Kent feels lube and come trickle out onto Jack’s cock, presumably, and down over the curvature of his sac to the sweaty space between thighs. It’s wet and messy and he feels so open; Eric gasps, and Kent knows that he must look it too.

Pressing one last kiss to Kent’s back, Eric slips off but not away, climbing onto the bed next to Jack. His skin is flushed from cheeks to belly, this beautiful, dusky pink that hides all the freckles Kent has come to know and love. He’s smiling, chest heaving, and taking his sweet time getting comfortable up against Jack’s side.

After pressing a kiss to Jack’s cheek, Eric lets out a satisfied sigh and reclines with his hands behind his head. “Think that was even better’n last time,” he muses, and then, “Don’t know what you’re waitin’ for. Get on with it, Jack.”

Jack groans and then turns Kent’s world upside down, rolling them over so Kent’s on his back, lazily smirking and reaching up to pat at Jack’s cheek. “Go ahead, Zimms.”

After folding Kent just the way he wants him, Jack does.

The thing is, Kent maybe kind of likes this part the best – when Jack just uses him, thrusting fast and evenly until it turns sporadic, until Eric gets a hand in his hair and Kent says, “C’mon, Jack, we’ve got you.” He loves to watch, to hear, to _experience_ Jack come. It’s even better when he can feel it too, the trembles and subsequent bonelessness, the way he wilts forward into Kent’s waiting arms.

Kent feels like a mess. An absolutely satisfied, glorious mess.

Come and lube both try to make an appearance and Kent’s still too wrung out to give a shit. He’d head toward the en-suite for a shower if he knew with certainty that his knees wouldn’t give out; instead, it’d probably be best to just make Eric or Jack bring him a washcloth for now.

“Nose goes,” Kent calls, finger to the tip of his nose. 

His eyes aren’t even open but he hears Jack mutter, “ _Merde_ ,” and then he’s extracting himself from Kent’s hold. Jack’s not always nice enough to use warm water on the washcloth, but he’s also not the type to just hand the washcloth over to Kent. (Cough, cough, _Eric_.) He’s extra gentle, pressing kisses to Kent’s inner thighs after he scrubs away the mess, looking reverent and flushed whenever Kent peeks at him. 

“How often do you think we could do that without there being, like, ya know, permanent damage?” Kent asks, rubbing a hand up his belly, fingertips catching on the ridges of muscle. Missed bits of come flake off; Kent wipes his hand on the sheets. “Because I’d kinda like to be stuffed with dicks like that for the rest of forever.”

Eric snorts and says, “Lord, have mercy, Kent.” 

*

Kent’s been to Boston more times than he can count – and he still fucking hates the Bruins – but he’s never been in a capacity that was strictly for fun. It’s always been work. But, being here, seeing Jack and Eric look around with bright eyes, comparing the passing strip malls and historical buildings to what they remember from their time at Samwell. 

There’s always a piece of Kent that will be jealous about the time they shared without him, and he’d reconciled that a while ago, but it’s…nice. It’s good to see that there was some good out of what Kent thought was fucked up beyond repair – that Jack was able to take Kent’s abandonment, flip it on its head and make something great from it. Sure, the bitterness is there, but it’s sweet too. Without Samwell, Eric and Jack wouldn’t’ve met. And Kent wouldn’t’ve gotten a second chance. And they wouldn’t be here today, looking at it with fresh eyes, giddy about the prospect of having children together.

Fuck, it’s a lot to think about.

*

“Welcome to Casa de Duan-y-Knight, brought to you by the power of staggering amounts of student debt and wily charm,” Shitty says as he gestures around to unpacked boxes and mountain of Tupperware filled with…art supplies? on the kitchen island. “We don’t have much, but what we do have…it’s goddamned great.” He’s grinning like he doesn’t have a care in the world, clasping Jack on the shoulder. “How’ve you been brother?”

Lardo – or, Larissa – gestures for Kent and Eric to take a seat in the living room, for lack of a better term, in these weird ass chairs that don’t look like they can support the weight of a professional hockey player. Or even Eric, for that matter. They’re kind of shaped like ribbons, and they spin, so whatever, Kent’s going to have a good time.

“They’re going to bro at each other for a while,” Eric says to Kent, accepting a glass of water from Lardo. Then he turns to her, teasing little smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Whatever happened to, ‘I can’t ever see myself married and living in a house that doesn’t smell like hockey bros,’ Miss Larissa?”

She shrugs, taking a spin in her own ribbon chair. Kent’s dizzy just watching; he goes to sink into a bean bag chair instead. “He still smells like one half the time,” she deadpans. “Next thing you know, I’ll be having kids just like you, Bits.”

Eric snorts and Lardo laughs – Kent notices the way things go silent in the kitchen, Shitty watching his wife with pure adoration hiding behind the pornstache. It’s a lot like how Jack looks at Eric. 

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Eric crows, “Please do. Our kids’ll need lotsa cousins.” 

Lardo, who Kent has never seen look anything other than completely zen, actually blushes and shrugs again. “I don’t know,” she says evenly. “We’ll see.” She takes a sip of her beer and then goes for another spin. “Speaking of, do you guys have a donor yet?”

“A surrogate,” Eric corrects, “and nope, not just yet. That’s part of why we’re here now, to get that all squared away. Just wanted to come see y’all first.”

“Aww,” Lardo says flatly, “how sweet.” 

Kent snorts, and Lardo grins at him almost conspiratorially. He doesn’t really know what to do with that.

It doesn’t take long before Eric commandeers the kitchen, all of the rest of them sitting around the kitchen island in mismatched chairs of various heights while he makes a whole helluva lot of something out of not much. Kent’s pretty sure that Eric could make, like, deconstructed pizza cupcakes out of some leftover Sal’s. They’ve got a nice casserole after all is said and done, even though Shitty assured them that he didn’t mind shelling out for steaks, but Eric is nothing if not resourceful. 

He’s not really expecting it but Kent gets a huge kick out of that Shitty guy. He’s talks out of his ass, one hundred percent, but he’s also not afraid to call Kent out on his bullshit either. It definitely doesn’t hurt that he’s hilarious. And attractive. 

When they’re heading back to the hotel in the rental car, Kent leans forward between the front seats and asks, “So did either of you sleep with that guy?”

Eric bursts out laughing while Jack gives a vehement, “ _No_. Shitty’s straight, Kent.” 

Really, Kent doesn’t get what the big deal is. He asks, “Then why the hell did we just have a two-hour conversation about how the gender spectrum and the sexuality spectrum are not mutually exclusive?”

“He double majored in Women’s Gender and Sexuality and Poli-Sci,” Jack answers, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “You’re kind of proving his thesis right now, by the way. One time he got _really_ high and kept saying, ‘ _The bro does not the cishet shithead maketh.’_ ”

“Was that the time you kept squawkin’ ‘cause he wouldn’t get out of your bed?” Eric asks.

Jack snorts. He takes a left turn leisurely; Kent tamps down the urge to backseat drive. “ _Which time?_ He was always in my bed. And naked.”

Kent interjects at that point because, “What the fuck, that’s what I was asking!” Naked and in Jack’s bed, like. Jack’s such a prude that that would never happen outside of a sexual context. He doesn’t even like changing in the locker room – absolutely refuses to talk to media without at least UnderArmour on.

“ _No_ ,” Jack says as he pulls into the parking garage, taking the incline so slowly that Kent’s pretty sure they might start going backwards. “You were talking about sex. I never fucked Shitty. But he was the first person I came out to at Samwell.”

“Hey, me too!” Eric says. They share a sickeningly adorable look over the center console.

“Guys, save the grossness for the hotel room, _tabarnak_ ,” Kent says, rolling his eyes. They always get so mushy about shit. “But, really, neither of you fucked him? Those full-body hugs, I just. I can’t believe that.”

“Nah,” Eric says, waving a hand, “he’s always like that. And straight.”

The doors to the rental unlock whenever Jack kills the engine and pops his open. “What did he tell me…he’s, uh…” Jack looks heavenward, thinking. Or, at the upper floor of the parking garage, whatever. “Polyromantic, hetero-centric demisexual. Demiheterosexual? I don’t remember exactly.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Kent asks, hopping over a puddle of questionable content. “It sounds like a disease.”

Eric chips in with, “Means he likes takin’ his friends out on dates, but he’s only bangin’ Lardo because she’s his very best friend.” 

And well. Huh. Kent didn’t even know that was a thing. “That’s. Interesting?” 

“Very,” Eric agrees, “But that’s just Shitty. He loves snuggling too much to limit himself, I guess.”

Kent keeps his thoughts to himself as they traipse down to the hotel, through the lobby, and up to their room. Jack shelled out for a room with a really nice view. As he flops back onto the bed, Kent stares at nothing and tries to think about what he’d define himself as. He sits back up. “So, wait, if he’s – that. What are you guys? What am _I?_ ”

Jack gives a shrug and answers, “Bisexual.”

“Gay,” Eric chirps. 

“Huh,” Kent says. 

For a while he fucks around on his phone while Jack busies himself with corresponding with the agency and Eric Skypes his agent, but then he figures, hey, might as well do some research and figure this shit out. 

Only, there’s a veritable _shitload_ of stuff he’s never known about. Like how he’s a cis-dude – which, okay yeah he learned about the whole transgender thing from Caitlyn Jenner and Laverne Cox – and how it’s possible to be a combination of dude and chick or to be neither or somewhere outside of those two options. And that’s just the _gender_ spectrum. Most of the stuff Shitty had been talking about kind of went over Kent’s head, but now that he’s actually reading – this is actually really fucking interesting.

It makes him really think about, reflect really, how when he was younger and still living at home, Sully had been adamant about being called a boy for a couple of years. Kent hadn’t really thought much of it, and probably did a lot of damage by insisting that she was his sister and not his brother. 

“Oh my god,” Kent says, and then, “Oh my _god_.” He has to panic-breathe for a few moments while Eric quickly signs off of his Skype call and Jack sets his laptop aside. Kent might possibly be crying. His head is too fuzzy for him to be able to tell.

“What is it, darlin’?” Eric asks softly, “Tell us what’s goin’ on so we can help.”

“What if – what if –” Okay, Kent needs to chill with the whole not-breathing-properly thing, but, hey, yeah, Bitty gives the best hugs. “I think I need to call Sully. I… God, I was a shitty brother.”

“Alright,” Eric gently concedes.

Jack unlocks Kent’s phone and selects Sully’s contact, offering it back up as he says, “Kenny, she worships the ground you walk on. There’s no way she thinks you’re as shitty as you’re thinking.”

“Gee,” Kent bites, “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Eric snaps, “You cut that out. We’re just tryin’ to help. Now you go on into the bathroom and make that call, and when you get back you’d better be ready to apologize to Jack.”

Sufficiently chastised, Kent tromps off to the bathroom, the line ringing for Sully as he goes. When she picks up, she sounds busy, out of breath like maybe she just got finished running or – oh, wait, yeah, no she definitely just got out of practice. “Sulls?”

“ _Hey, Kenny, hang on just a sec,_ ” Sully answers. There’s a series of loud bangs, the sound of a gear bag being dropped and then the trunk getting shut, and then things are significantly quieter whenever Sully says, “ _Yo, what’s up?_ ”

“Am I a shitty brother?” Kent asks, hand on his forehead. He slings his hat off and it lands on the counter, skittering to a stop in the sink. “Or, have I been a shitty brother? I just.”

“ _Whoa_ ,” Sully says. “ _What’s with the existential crisis? What brought this on?_ ”

Kent rubs at his eye and paces over to sit on the edge of the tub. It’s this huge Jacuzzi monstrosity; Eric goes nuts for these things. “We just got to Boston a few hours ago – for the kid thing – and. They’ve got this friend who – ugh, long story short…remember when we were kids and you. You insisted you were a dude?” It takes a while, a lot of processing before thoughts can become semi-coherent sentences, but Kent eventually susses it all out and, yeah, no, of course Sully doesn’t hate his guts.

“ _Dude, no seriously. I mean, I’m glad you finally found out about the gender spectrum, but honestly. It’s cool, bro._ ”

God, Sully is so much cooler than him. “I hate that you’re cooler than me.”

“ _Yeah, well_ ,” she says, clearly amused, “ _You’ve had a long time to get used to it, so get over yourself_.”

“Really, you’re not mad though?” Kent asks, just to be sure.

“ _Ughhhhhhhh. Really not mad, Kent._ ” Sully takes a deep breath and then lets it out, like this conversation is taking as much out of her as the preceding feelings took out of Kent. “ _But, hey. While we’re sort of on the subject, I should probably let you know that I do have a boyfriend._ ”

Kent nearly falls into the tub. “ _What?!_ Seriously? Wait, when did this happen – is it that Curtis guy that’s all over your Instagram?”

“ _Ugh, this is why I don’t tell you anything,_ ” Sully says around an annoyed groan. “ _Can I drive home now? I’ll text you later._ ”

“Yeah, as long as you _give me details, Sullivan La—_ ” The line goes dead before Kent can pull out the full name trick.

By the time he comes out, he _is_ feeling pretty shitty about getting salty with Jack. And it’s made ten times worse by the way Jack’s staring at him all hesitant and concerned, like he’s afraid to ask how the call went or something. Eric, on the other hand, has no qualms.

“Everything alright?” Eric asks, quirking a brow from over the screen of his laptop.

Kent comes to sit beside Jack on the bed, leaning into his side and resting his head on Jack’s broad shoulder. “Yeah. I’m sorry. That was rude of me; I know you guys were just trying to help.” Jack’s hand comes up to rub at his back, so Kent knows he’s forgiven. Even if it feels like – ugh, he always reacts so wrongly to Jack. It doesn’t matter if he means well or how old they get, Kent’s always gonna fuck up. He just hopes Jack will always forgive him.

“Ugh, are you guys sure you still want to have kids with me?” Kent asks, half-genuinely. “I’m terrible. First I didn’t let Sully express her gender and now I’m being bitchy for no reason. Jack, why do you put up with me?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jack says, knocking his head into Kent’s before he gives him a squeeze, both arms tight around Kent’s middle. “We’ll just have to work on it.” He smacks a kiss to the side of Kent’s head and that’s that.

*

Their first appointment with Nadine goes really well, Kent assumes, because he’s honestly still so distracted by this gender and sexuality thing to really fully pay attention. Because now he’s wondering what it’d be like to raise a kid (or _kids_ ) who felt like they didn’t fit within the binary – that _terrifies_ him. Not because, like, they’d be outside of it, or whatever, but because society isn’t quite to the point of acceptance and it doesn’t look like things will be that way for a long while yet.

He just wants his kids to have the same opportunities as everyone else.

Which. Okay, is kind of ridiculous now that he thinks about it because, like, being raised by two professional athletes and a star chef will definitely provide _better_ opportunities than a gigantic percentage of the population. 

Whatever. Kent didn’t go to college. And he wasn’t all that bright to begin with. Charm has gotten him everywhere.

*

“Oh, my god,” Kent says peering at the screen. “Eric, she looks just like you. Do you, like, have a long lost twin?”

“Kent, honey, you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a twin,” Eric says, patting at Kent’s hand before leaning in to take a closer look. “Oh. Good heavens, she does.”

“Told you!” Kent crows, pumping a fist as Eric continues gaping. 

Honestly, she does, though. Well. Kind of like a perfect mix of Eric and Kent, because her profile says that she’s a little less than Kent’s height with similar huge hazel eyes, but the light dusting of freckles and natural blonde shade of her hair scream Eric. She’s even got the tiny, delicate, upturned nose they’ve both got. She’s gorgeous, really, and Kent can’t fucking _wait_ to show her to Jack.

“Jack,” Kent says, knocking on the bathroom door, “Jack. Hey, Jack. _Zimms_.”

Through the door he hears, “Fucking _what_ Kenny, _calisse_.”

“We found your female soulmate,” Kent says, glad that Jack’s answered, “Like. She looks like a morph between me and Eric and, like, Sully or something. Totally your type. You’re gonna shit when you see her.”

“I’m trying to do that now,” Jack retorts through the door, “If you’d give me a little privacy.”

Kent laughs, doesn’t apologize, and goes back to sit on the bed with Eric, bouncing just enough to jostle the laptop a tiny bit. “He’s gonna love her,” Kent says nuzzling into Eric’s temple as he flattens a hand across Eric’s chest. “Not as much as he loves us, of course, but. Wow, we’re gonna put his baby in her.”

Eric barks a laugh and squirms away, swatting at Kent’s hand. “Heavens to Betsy, Kent. I really hope that wasn’t dirty-talk.”

“What!”

“Oh my god.” Eric keeps laughing and then Jack finally makes an appearance, clearly still grumpy from Kent talking to him while he was on the toilet. Wiping away legitimate tears, Eric teases, “Sweetpea, your boyfriend is gross. And terrible.”

“Tell me about it,” Jack says, rolling his eyes as he lies down on Eric’s other side.

“Quit ganging up on me,” Kent whines, “You guys know I’m insecure about that.”

“Oh hush, sweetie. You know we love you just the way you are,” Eric says gently, pressing a kiss to Kent’s jaw at the same time that Jack reaches over to squeeze his thigh. “Anyway,” he says, swiping a finger over the trackpad to bring the screen back to life, “ _Look_.”

And, yeah, Kent’s still a little butthurt, but it doesn’t stop him from watching Jack’s face light up when he sees the woman’s picture. “ _Calisse de crisse,_ ” Jack breathes. “She looks just like you guys, eh?” 

He takes the laptop from Eric and scrolls through her profile, clearly intent on finding out if she has any family history she’s bringing to the table. Jack’s already worried about their kids having his predisposition for anxiety and depression, so he’s been wanting to make sure that it’s not going to be doubly likely because of their bio-mom. But no. This girl seems to be perfect, and Kent’s maybe crossing his fingers a bit while he watches Jack’s face. 

Jack looks up once he’s finished reading, blinking slowly before he looks from Eric to Kent and back again. 

“That’s. She – can we –”

“It’s her, right?” Kent asks, grin blossoming. 

Jack nods. “She’s perfect.”

“I _told_ you,” he says. “I’d probably fuck her if I were a narcissist. Or single.”

Eric snorts and Jack rolls his eyes. “ _Terrible_.”

For the second time in not too many minutes, Kent says, “What!”

***

“So…what, we all just jizz in a cup and see whose swims fastest?”

“ _Kent_ ,” Eric says, flushing that beautiful shade of pink that makes Kent want to bite at the apple of his cheek. “You can’t just – goodness. Sorry about him.”

Jack, too, looks a little flushed – and it’s because, Kent realizes, he’s probably thinking about that time that they both came all over Eric’s face while Eric had been palming at their asses and looking this beautiful mixture of desperate and defiant. He clears his throat. “Clearly we need to be walked through the process,” Jack says to Nadine, who is waiting patiently for them to get their shit together. “Again.”

She explains everything and Kent’s a little bit too distracted from thinking about that night and looking at Eric’s still-pink cheeks to really listen. Then they’re all standing to go and Kent, belatedly, follows. It’s easier to get into the zone for this trailing after them anyway, eyes on Jack’s ass and the subtle sway of Eric’s little hips. Eric turns to look at Kent over his shoulder; his gaze looks more amused than anything. Kent just smirks back, dirty as hell before he bites his lip. It makes Eric blush again, muttering something to Jack under his breath as they follow Nadine down the hall.

“Who’d like to go first?” Nadine asks. She brandishes a specimen cup from a gloved hand.

Just as Kent’s about to volunteer, Eric nabs it out of her hand and shuffles off to the little designated room, declining her offer of magazines. He looks painfully embarrassed as he shuts the door behind himself.

After Nadine leaves to do some paperwork, Kent lasts all of two seconds before he’s cuddling up as close to Jack as possible. “Zimms,” Kent says, “Hey, Zimms.”

“What, Kenny?” Jack asks, sounding only mildly annoyed.

“You think he’s in there thinking about us? Maybe about the other night, ya know, when you did that thing he likes so much and he barely pulled out before he came all over you,” Kent says quietly. He feels about ready to vibrate out of his skin, horny as hell and giddy from the excitement coursing through him. “God, I hope he is.”

Jack’s still staring resolutely at the wall, but he shifts enough in the chair to let Kent know he’s really listening. 

“He loves it when you get all needy for it, begging him and clutching at us like you’d do anything. Sometimes I think you would. Think you’d do anything to get him just a little deeper, to go harder, maybe to get my mouth on you just the way you like it.” Kent’s hand settles on Jack’s thigh, too high to be proprietary, close enough to what Jack undoubtedly wants to be a tease. “Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Though he doesn’t verbally respond, Jack’s breath comes a little faster and his eyes flicker closed before opening again to settle into a glare. He whispers, “Kenny… _tabarnak_.”

“What? Don’t act like it’s not true.” Kent leans in close, hand still braced against Jack’s thigh, and nips at Jack’s earlobe just to watch him squirm. “You know how much Eric likes the way you beg. I like it too. Love it when you get desperate –”

There are footsteps and then Nadine approaches just as Eric emerges from the little room, cheeks flushed and eyes averted as he hands over the sample. Nadine accepts it, and holds out an empty one that Jack rises to take while Kent’s distracted by watching Eric take a heavy, loose-limbed seat next to him. The door shuts behind Jack and Nadine disappears with Eric’s cup.

“ _Merde_ ,” Kent swears under his breath, stretching his legs apart so that he’s not pressed up so tightly against the seam of his pants.

Eric mutters, “Manners,” but curls into Kent’s side, cuddly as ever in his post-orgasm lassitude. He lifts Kent’s arm and wriggles his way beneath it, curling an arm around his middle and nuzzling at Kent’s pec the way he likes. It makes Kent shiver and Eric makes a soft noise in response that relays his happiness with the moment. “Gonna be dads,” he says softly, “It’s real, Kent.”

Pressing a kiss to Eric’s head, Kent relaxes into the cuddles that Eric’s so free with and hugs him close. He settles a bit, not as worked up as he’d been mere moments ago. “Love you,” he mutters, grinning when Eric preens and nuzzles closer.

Kent spends the time that Jack’s locked in the room just stroking over Eric’s back and trying not to hope too hard that – well. That Jack’s doing a good job in there so that their first baby (of what Kent hopes is _many_ ) is biologically his. Jack’s sad blue eyes, his stubborn jaw and straight nose would be easy to differentiate on a baby from Kent’s own and Eric’s similar features. It’d been funny at first, so obvious that Jack has a type. It’s still funny, kind of, but now they’ll just have to use temperament as a gauge to figure it out. Not that any of them would really want to know. They’ll love the babies equally.

Even if all of them end up being Kent’s. (Or so Jack had chirped. Kent had laughed at the time, but he hopes that doesn’t happen. If anything, he’d want all of them to be Jack’s, and he knows that Eric feels the same way.)

It takes Jack a significant amount of time less than it takes Eric and he has to go down the hall to deliver his specimen cup. He trails after Nadine, looking a little embarrassed, but smiling just the tiniest bit and almost as flushed as Eric. 

And then it’s Kent’s turn and – well.

It takes him pretty much no time at all, but he refuses to be embarrassed about it, marching down the hall with his head held high to deliver the specimen cup to Nadine, Jack and Eric trailing after him. Nadine explains that there will be a little bit of a wait for them, but she’ll email them their count profiles and get back with them as soon as she has news about their chosen surrogate.

After all of the paperwork they had to go through, Kent’s a little miffed that there’s even _more_ waiting.

Once they get back to the suite, Eric bustles off to the bedroom with his laptop and Jack herds Kent to the couch in the living area. Almost immediately after pushing Kent down, Jack slides to his knees, going for the button of Kent’s jeans even as his eyes are full of fire as he looks up at Kent, says, “You’re _terrible_ , you know. Teasing me like that. What if – what if someone _saw?_ ”

“Saw what?” Kent smirks, petting down Jack’s cheek. “I know you liked it. Besides, they all signed NDAs; we’re good.” 

Jack makes a frustrated noise, but yanks until the zipper just breaks and then mouths at Kent’s dick through his boxers. “Terrible,” Jack mutters against him, hot and damp once he starts mouthing kisses through the fabric. 

Shuddering, still sensitive from earlier, Kent slips his fingers into the hair at Jack’s nape and encourages him to look up. And all of that focus, Jack’s attention just on him, kills him just a bit. He tugs a bit until Jack’s head is tilted back and Kent can lean in and kiss him just the way he wants to. He has _we’re gonna be dads, we’re gonna be dads, we’re gonna be dads_ running on repeat in his head, making him want to shove Jack down onto the floor and cover him with his body and like. Kiss him all over.

“Hey,” he says softly, breaking the moment into something a little easier to bear, “I love you, Jack.”

Jack echoes it with a, “ _Je t’aime_ ,” that gives way to a soft grin and then he’s arching up, cupping Kent’s jaw and kissing him thoroughly. 

Once they’ve finished and cleaned up, the whole room smells like sex and Eric’s still MIA, talking to his agent or Shitty or maybe his mom, Kent doesn’t know. But he does know that Eric is accepting of Kent shuffling up beside him, wrapping an arm around both of Eric’s thighs and nuzzling into his hip. With Jack off to go make a call, Kent and Eric are alone. It’s definitely rarer, now that it’s the off-season, but Kent still loves it just as much as he did back when they were dating. 

Which.

Well, maybe they’re still dating? Kent doesn’t know what to call Eric and Jack, really, because they’re not all like, _legally_ married, but they are in all the ways that count. “Boyfriends? That sounds kind of juvenile. Lovers? _Ew_ , no. Partners is…I don’t know,” Kent mutters into Eric’s hip, “Significant others sounds kinda sterile.”

“What are you down there mumblin’ about?” Eric asks, still clacking away at the keyboard.

Kent lifts his head. “What are we?”

He’s not expecting Eric to burst into laughter.

Kent sighs.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” Eric says, smoothing back Kent’s hair, “it’s just. We’ve been together for three and a half years – or longer, if you count. Well. But you’re just now havin’ that epiphany?”

“ _No_ ,” Kent says, “Well, yes. I guess. I’ve just never really thought of what to call you and Jack beyond boyfriends and that just feels…” He shrugs, looking away. “I feel like we’re past that now? Especially since we’re well on our way to being parents together, ya know?”

Eric’s smile is gentle, but bright. He scritches through Kent’s hair and then bends to press a kiss to his forehead. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says with a shrug, “I refer to you as one of my husbands to anyone I talk to.”

It does, actually, but it’s not. That’s not…. _it_. Kent lets out a sigh of frustration. “There’s gotta be a word for it. In the – in the poly community. Maybe.” He sits up, scanning for his own laptop. “I need to do research.”

Kent’s still zoned on it when Jack makes it back, and he waves them both off when they ask if he wants to order in or go out, and, by the time they come back with a couple of takeout cartons, he hasn’t quite found the word he’s looking for, but he has learned quite a few new things. 

“Did you know,” he starts, “that we’re not polygamists? We’re technically polyfidelity…ists. Polyfidelists? Whatever. That sounds weird.”

Jack crawls up onto the bed, showing interest with an, “Oh?” as he takes the place directly beside Kent while Eric slides in next to him. “What does that mean?”

“Well.” Kent clears his throat and hands his laptop over to Jack, showing him which tabs to click on while he sets about opening up the massive order of veggie lo mein they’d brought back for him. “Apparently polygamy is inherently sexist. And hierarchical.”

“I didn’t know you knew that word,” Jack snorts.

Kent narrows his eyes at him and shoves more noodles into his mouth. “ _Anyway_ ,” he continues, “I know at the beginning we were all kind of. Well. It _was_ hierarchical. Because you two are married and I – I was grateful for Eric, but I didn’t love him just yet. But – and, please, correct me if I’m wrong – but now we’re all on equal footing, right?”

Both Jack and Eric nod immediately.

The relief flooding through Kent kind of surprises him, but he tries not to let it show. He knows he’s kind of irrational with his fears of never quite measuring up. “So we’re all in this closed, committed, _serious_ emotional relationship. Like, we’ve got the whole fluid-bonding thing going for us. None of us are hooking up with anyone else and aren’t looking to. That’s polyfidelity.” He takes another huge bite of lo mein and pretends like he’s not watching closely for their reactions.

“Interesting,” Jack muses. He clicks a link on one of the sites and it leads to a pretty thorough article that Kent had read while they were gone.

“So, like,” Eric says, scratching his head, “Group monogamy.”

“Sort of. I mean,” Kent says, pausing to swallow, “I think. I think if either of you guys fell in love with someone else, or if I did, we’d all sit and see if we wanted to include them in the group. So it’s a little more than just that. But. Yeah, sure.”

Eric’s phone buzzes with a text and he gets distracted with that.

But Jack looks up. “Are you _wanting_ to?”

Kent has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. “No.” He pats at Jack’s thigh for reassurance and then takes another bite. “But that does make room for your boy Shitty to fit in, if we’re adding romantic partners too and not just sexual ones.”

“Speaking of,” Eric says, looking up from his phone, “Shitty invited us out for dinner before we fly back on Monday. He said, and I quote, ‘Don’t want to get used to your fan-fuckin’-tastic meals when I’m gonna be living on ramen for the next for-fuckin’-ever.’ So, I’m thinkin’ some gastropub or something. Shitty, Jack, and Lardo can get their pretentious beer and Kenny and I can share a bottle of wine without being judged.”

“Right on,” Kent says, holding his hand out for a fistbump. Eric obliges and smiles like the sun.

Jack snorts. “Yeah, tell him sure. Also – I didn’t really think about him as…like he’s. One of us.” Jack’s nose scrunches. “You’re both – it’s different, the way he’s important to me.”

“And that’s cool,” Kent says. He flicks a piece of broccoli up and catches it in his mouth. “Because we’re a triad and we never discussed bringing him into it.”

“ _Crisse_ , this is confusing,” Jack says, shutting the laptop. “There are so many distinctions and designations – I don’t like the – I wouldn’t call either of you ‘secondary’; that’s awful.”

“And that’s exactly what I was saying about the hierarchical shit.” Kent polishes off his carton and tosses it towards the trashcan. It actually goes in. Score. “And leads back to what made me start looking shit up in the first place. What do you refer to me as?”

Jack looks confused. “Uh, ‘Kenny’ mostly.”

Eric laughs, putting his hand on Jack’s thigh. “Oh, honey. He means what do you call him when you’re talkin’ about him to other people?” He slips his arm around Jack’s middle, phone nowhere to be found. “Like how I call y’all my husbands.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jack says, cheeks pinkening a bit, “Um. I don’t know? Partner, I guess. But to my parents I just say your names.”

“Maybe we should just make one up,” Eric suggests, shrugging a shoulder.

Kent’s frustrated – he wants to groan, long and loud, but instead he just says, “Yeah, maybe. I mean, ‘partners’ does the job, so I guess that’ll have to do.” 

It’s not too long before his mind is off of it, anyway, because they get an email back from Nadine about their surrogate saying that she’s not currently trying to have kids of her own, so she’s available to start the process as early as next week. Which actually leads to Eric jumping on the bed, Kent falling off of it, and Jack shouting excitedly in a mix of Quebecois and English before leaning over to help Kent up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That was a nice vacation,” Eric says as Kent strips off his pants. “Think this time next year that we’ll be wishin’ for one just like it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to me :)

Dinner with Shitty and Lardo is a hilariously loud affair full of reminiscing and Shitty prodding Kent for Major Juniors stories about Jack and all the pranking they did. (The mattress story is especially a hit.) The food is good – even if not quite up to Eric’s standards – and the wine leaves Kent tipsy and Eric flushed and Jack keeps looking between them from where he’s sitting between Shitty and Lardo like he’s got so much love for all of them that it’s going to burst out of him.

By the time they’re separating with intense hugs, Jack has agreed to come visit more often and Lardo has programmed her number into Kent’s phone so they can finish their discussion about the Clippers’ offense.

Back at the hotel, things are a little more subdued. They’ve only been in Boston for a few days but their shit is strewn out everywhere and Kent’s feeling too lazy to pack for their flight tomorrow. It’s not even all that late, but he just wants to snuggle in bed with his boys before they have to go back to the daily grind in Vegas. 

That must either show on his face or maybe they’re feeling it too, but Eric just flops down in the middle of the bed while Jack yawns and stretches before heading into the bathroom with his pajama pants. 

“That was a nice vacation,” Eric says as Kent strips off his pants. “Think this time next year that we’ll be wishin’ for one just like it?”

Kent snorts. “No way. We’ll be wishing for, like, a remote desert island just to get some silence and sleep.”

Jack returns to sit on the edge of the bed next to them, toothbrush in his mouth. “Cabin in the mountains.”

“Could go back to Italy,” Eric says.

And, _yeah_. “ _Italy_ ,” Kent agrees, going warm at the memory.

“Mm,” Jack hums, “Maybe for an anniversary. Could get Jeff, Steph, and Liv to watch the kids.”

Kent laughs, picturing Jeff finally hanging out with people at his maturity level. “Ya know, that’s not a bad idea,” he says. “The kids could see what it’s like to live with two moms instead of three dads.”

The conversation trails off after Jack goes to finish brushing his teeth, each of them silently contemplating the fact that this is the first time they’ve _really_ talked about their kids as a guaranteed thing they’ll have to plan their future around. Because it’s _real_. To Kent, it’s been real the entire time, but now. Now Jack’s treating it like it’s real, and shit can’t get any realer than that.

***

Pre-season is a lot of hard work and with management playing them up, there’s a lot of pressure on both Kent and Jack to play like they’re the new Bad Bob and Lemieux. Which. They’re not. They’re Kent and Jack -- and Kent’s Jack’s captain which is a little weird considering he used to be Jack’s A back in the Q.

But it’s a lot of fun being on the ice together, getting pushed through drills and post-practice media. Pat calls Kent after practice is over and asks for him to put it on speaker so he can yap at both him and Jack at the same time to save them some energy. 

“ _How’d you both like to go to New York for the media tour?_ ” Pat asks, tinny through the speaker. “ _Crosby and Kessel’ll be there along with Toews. There’s also word that Eichel and McDavid are going to show. Subban’ll be there for sure._ ” 

“Uh,” Jack says, shrugging and shooting Kent a look over the center console.

“We’ll have to talk to Eric about it,” Kent answers, “Just send us the dates and flight times, and then we’ll let you know.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Pat says, “ _I’ll give you a couple of days, but let me know ASAP so I can get word to the rest of management._ ”

He disconnects the phone call without another word, leaving Jack and Kent to drive home in peace. When they walk in, still damp from their post-practice showers and absolutely _starving_ , Eric’s got something in the oven and there’s a camera crew setting up in the kitchen. It’s clean – lemon scented which means Eric touched up what Christine did earlier in the week. Kent thinks it might be overkill, but he doesn’t question Eric’s methods, just shoots Jack a wrinkled nose before he slips upstairs to change.

And sure enough, when he checks his phone, there’s a text from Eric detailing which outfit he should wear along with instructions on how to do his hair. 

When he reappears downstairs, Eric gives Kent a delighted smile before coming over to give him a quick kiss. “Sorry I didn’t give y’all any warning; the morning got away from me. Jack’s already disappeared into the office, but I knew I could at least try to convince you to do test shots with me.” Eric grins and smooths Kent’s shirt down and – how is he supposed to say no? “So will ya?”

“Sure, babe,” Kent answers easily, hand on Eric’s hip. “Whatever you want.”

Kent keeps it as casual as possible, grinning at Eric as he whips up some meringue and talks into two different cameras. It’s no time at all before he’s sliding a piece of pie – from the fridge, actually – in front of Kent and leaning over the island on his elbows to watch Kent’s reaction. 

It’s a good thing Kent’s used to cameras, and Eric’s cooking being way too good, because otherwise he’d be a little intimidated by the camera in his face and the way he’s being directed to cut the piece just so, to bring it up to his mouth at _this_ angle, to say _these_ words. But – by the end of it, Eric’s grinning because Kent can’t really be anything other than enthusiastic about Eric’s food and he argues with the producer or director or whoever the fuck about keeping it genuine. 

Jack only reappears once all of the crew is gone, back to the studio to edit or whatever. He looks almost sheepish, kissing Eric and muttering a, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Eric says. “But I’m worn smooth out. Can we order pizza?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent moans.

They get the cheesiest deep-dish available piled high with veggies and meat. Kent pops his in the broiler to crisp up the crust and get the cheese a little meltier while Eric and Jack dig in, shouting from the couch for Kent to hurry up so they can watch a movie. He drawls back, “Hold your horses,” just to hear Eric’s peal of laughter and imagine the way Jack’s rolling his eyes. 

Before the movie starts – something with The Rock and Vin Diesel – Jack introduces the topic of the upcoming media tour and asks if he should join Kent or stay here with Eric and keep training with the team. Apparently, Eric has to stay to iron out some more Food Network details, otherwise they’d just book him a flight alongside theirs, and so he says, “I’m not gonna be any fun ‘til everything’s worked out, so you might as well go have fun in New York.” He smirks and says, “I wouldn’t mind some tipsy phone sex, though.”

Kent nearly chokes on his pizza.

***

It’s no secret that Kent hates flying, but this is only the third time in a really long while that Kent’s flown with Jack by his side and _boy_ is he grateful. Jack doesn’t complain the way Jeff used to when Kent squeezes his hand through takeoff. Thank fuck it’s a redeye, though, because Kent’s really not in the mood to hear a bunch of chatter when the white noise of the plane is enough to put him on edge.

Luckily though, they get set up with press badges and itineraries and then sent off to check into the hotel.

Kent sleeps until they’re called down for breakfast, curled up in Jack’s arms and missing Eric already. He grumbles as much to Jack, who just pats his hip on his way out of the bed and says, “Me too, Kenny. Let’s call him later tonight, yeah?” 

Slipping into the shower behind Jack is probably one of Kent’s favorite things to do, so he wastes no time in following Jack into the bathroom. He’s miles of pale, wet skin and Kent takes a little bit of time to just look at him, filled to the brim with gratefulness. It’s pretty easy to tell that Jack’s expecting it when Kent puts his hands on Jack’s hips, kisses a pattern into the muscles of his back. He digs his thumbs into the curve of Jack’s lower back, hoping to go further, wondering if Jack’s up for it.

“Kenny…” Jack warns. It’s half-hearted at best. “We don’t have time.”

Instead of insisting that they in fact _do_ the way he normally would, Kent backs off with just one last kiss and then reaches for the travel sized shampoo. He hums. “Maybe when we get back tonight after dinner?”

Jack huffs a laugh, barely audible over the spray of the shower. The water pressure is shit, but at least it’s hot. “Maybe, huh?”

“Definitely,” Kent corrects, stepping around Jack to rinse out his hair. “When we call Eric.” He shoots Jack a filthy grin, to which Jack just rolls his eyes, and then hops out, grabbing one of the folded up towels from above the toilet to towel off his hair and then sling around his hips. 

From their unpacked luggage, Kent grabs a semi-wrinkled button-down and a pair of dark wash jeans that make his ass look phenomenal (if he does say so himself). Jack comes out, unfairly attractive with his hair dripping and completely unaware of what he’s doing to Kent. 

“F.Y.I.,” Kent drawls, doing the clasp of his watch as he eyes the curve of Jack’s ass, “You’re making this whole ‘waiting’ thing really difficult for me.” 

Jack buttons up his jeans – and, _Crisse_ , he looks so good in jeans while shirtless; it should probably be a crime. His tiny, probably subconscious smirk is really the only thing that gives him away.

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I see you, Zimms.”

They make it down to breakfast with the other captains and alternate captains, coaches, and GMs within enough time to not be too suspicious. There are elite players _everywhere_ and Kent’s dealt with them for years on end, enough that he shouldn’t still get a little star struck when he sees Sidney Crosby sitting at a table with Malkin and Mario Lemieux. And of course Jack’s grinning, leading the way over to their table once they’ve served themselves up with plenty of eggs and granola. 

“You can’t sit with us,” is the first thing Kent hears from Malkin, his tongue poking out and eyes sparkling – and of course that has Kent practically dying with laughter. Both Sid and Jack look a little lost and Mario’s grinning around his fork.

“Oh my god,” he says around a laugh, “I thought Kessel was coming, not _you_.”

“Means you lucky,” Malkin says with a grin, “Get to be around best Russian hockey player, good for you.”

Jack half-mutters, “Don’t let Tater hear you say that.”

“Oh, Datsyuk’s here?” Kent teases, pretending to look at the nearby tables.

Malkin scoffs. “Nice try, but he’s retire.”

“Well, damn. I guess you’ll have to do then.” Kent grins, winking just to see what Malkin does.

He laughs. “Okay, okay. You can sit.”

“Malkin, good to see ya, man,” Kent says, juggling his plate so he can shake Malkin’s hand.

Jack actually looks at Mario to check if it’s okay – but whatever, that’s his ‘uncle’; it’s not like he’s going to say no – and Mario gestures to the unoccupied seats to his left. Chit-chatting has always been something that Kent’s good at, and it’s probably what drew Jack to him in the first place, but it’s so easy to talk about nothing. Kent asks Mario about his kids and that gets comments from both Sidney and Jack about which Lemieux kids are doing what and where, while Malkin gives input often enough for Kent to get a little suspicious about his and Crosby’s situation. 

Kent and Jack are really the only two ‘out’ hockey players, as far as being endorsed by the club and all that shit, but they’ve caught word from Pat and some of the GMs that they’re definitely not the only ones. It might take a little bit of time, but.

Yeah, Malkin and Crosby are totally boning. Maybe even married. 

Maybe they’ll come out, too. Or, well. With how things are in Russia, maybe not, but. Kent shoots a look over at Jack and he _gets it_. Maybe.

“Dude, Jack. _Jack_. They’re totally boning,” Kent whispers as they make their way to the main convention hall. “Look – oh, my god, Malkin was totally going for the ass. Did you see that? I mean, I don’t blame him but—” A quick look at Jack’s raised eyebrow and the flat line of his mouth has Kent eating his words, backtracking to save his life. “ _Clearly_ he has nothing on you, babe.” 

“Kenny,” Jack says after a sigh. “Just. Stop while you’re ahead.”

“But, I’m _right_.”

***

Jack’s a lot more talkative than Kent had been expecting, chirping in his dad-joke kind of way that makes him laugh at himself more than anything. It’s cracking Kent’s shit up, making Cabbie and the other interviewers laugh _at_ them more than with them. But it’s not like Jack notices and it’s not like Kent minds.

The convention’s hard enough work that even Kent is tired of faking smiles and making up bullshit answers by the time the interviews are over for the day. They’d gotten to poke fun at Ovechkin and Backstrom and then all of them gang up on a few of the new draftees during their round table session. Rookies are a lot of fun to fuck with, just because they have no idea whether they should laugh or be offended, and Kent always loves watching them work hard enough to earn their place on the lineup. 

Keeps him young, and all of that.

On the way back to the hotel, Jack stays tucked against Kent’s side in a way that doesn’t really work because of how much taller Jack is, but does because they’re willing to _make_ it work. Kent busses a kiss against Jack’s cheek and grins when it makes Jack blush.

“I can’t remember having this much fun at the other conventions,” Jack muses over Kent’s shoulder as he unlocks the hotel room door.

Kent finally gets the light to go green and lets them in. “Yeah, you’ve looked pretty miserable in the past.” Then he realizes the way that sounds. He scratches the back of his head as Jack settles on the edge of the bed, untying his fancy dress shoes. “Well. I mean. You seem happier, now. Um.”

“It’s easier with you,” Jack says, shrugging like it’s not a big deal at all that he’s saying this, “being here, knowing you’re on my side and that you’ve got my back.” 

Blinking slowly, Kent watches as he starts working on his cuffs, unrolling them from where they’d been rolled up to his elbows. “I do,” he says quietly, roughly, words catching in his throat. “I’ve always got you, Zimms.”

“Hey,” Jack whispers, slipping his legs open and spreading his arms, “come here. I’m gonna tell you something very important and I want you to listen, eh?” Kent goes and Jack smiles, hands settling on Kent’s hips. “Good, good. Are you listening?” Kent nods and Jack’s grin goes wider. “I _know_. And I love you.”

“ _Okay_ , you fucking sap,” Kent teases, hiding his blushing grin in Jack’s hair, “Jeez.”

For a while they just squeeze each other, holding on for dear life even though there’s nothing trying to tear them apart. Hell, in the past the only thing that ever stood between them was themselves. It’s been quite a while since they’ve had any true contention, and while Kent feels like that’s partly due to Eric, he’s pretty sure that they might’ve done some growing up.

Just a little.

Kent presses one kiss to Jack’s forehead and pulls back just far enough to look Jack in the eye. “Wanna call Eric?”

“ _Oui_.”

***

Off-season fades into training camp which fades into pre-season. By September, Kent, Jack, and Eric have made the rounds to each of their families – Kent’s first so they could hang out with his nieces and nephew, then Eric’s for the annual Independence Day cookout as well as Kent’s birthday festivities, and then Jack’s for _his_ birthday – and then October rolls around and the season starts up full throttle at the same time Eric starts filming _Bitty’s Blend_.

The first episode that Kent and Jack appear in is a special where Eric makes a spinoff version of his MooMaw’s Apple Pie with a caramel drizzle (which makes it taste like the feeling of going to the State Fair) the day after they get back from a week-long roadie, ending with two wins that put Jack in good enough spirits to agree to it. 

Kent’s in the office, finishing up a phone call with Rader about the brand new Swiss backup goalie when Eric comes in, flushed and grinning.

“Rader, I’m gonna go. Don’t fuck with the kid too bad, please.”

“ _No promises, Captain._ ”

Kent kills the call and watches as Eric folds his arms across his chest, leaning a hip and shoulder against the doorframe. “Got a sec?” he asks.

“All the time in the world for you,” Kent says easily, tossing a filthy smile Eric’s way before he winks.

Eric rolls his eyes, scrunches his nose in the way he always does right before he says, “You’re the worst. Actually, I was wantin’ to know if you wanted to feature in the episode. I made maple-walnut bourbon cocktails too, if that’ll snag ya.”

“You had me at ‘worst,’” Kent says. He slaps his palms against his knees and stands, bussing a kiss against Eric’s temple before hightailing it to the kitchen. “You didn’t let Jack eat all of MooMaw’s pie, didja?”

“There are two of ‘em, darlin’.”

“Oh, thank god.”

***

The home opener against the Minnesota Wild isn’t their first game of the season, but it is the first game that Eric gets to attend and he’s so cute all decked out in his Aces gear that Kent can hardly stand it. They’ve already gotten two hundred likes on their selfie and they’d only posted it on Eric’s Twitter instead – but Kent goes ahead and retweets it just to bump the count up.

Kent watches the newest rookie, Samson, take the ice all on his lonesome before the team pours on after him, chirping and laughing and doing warm-ups under his watchful eye before he and Jack do their years-old ritual – sticks, pads, helmets, sticks again -- before taking the ice; easy as breathing.

When the announcer calls Jack’s name for the starting lineup…Kent’s honestly _relieved_. Like. Things had gone really well during the pre-season games and everything, but this is the big show. This is what Jack’s acceptance to Vegas really comes down to. Kent’s just glad that he’s here, standing right beside him.

There’s huge fanfare after the anthems are sung and Kent does the puck drop with Koivu. And even from there, the cheering never dies. Kent’s pretty sure the arena has never been so consistently loud.

The noise doesn’t die out at all – not during puck drop, not when the Wild scores first and not when Kent gets called for roughing when it was _literally_ an accident. He came in too hot and couldn’t pump the brakes. Whatever. So they’re down one-nothing in the first period and Coach gives them the pump-up speech with a side of guilt-tripping before he sends them back out.

“You good, Zimms?” Kent asks, scanning over the team as they head out through the tunnel. When his eyes land back on Jack, Kent’s almost surprised by how _alive_ Jack looks. Kent’s smile is automatic.

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, nudging against Kent’s shoulder. “I’m good. Let’s do this, eh?”

Kent gives an overly enthusiastic, “Let’s fuckin’ go, boys!” and follows them out onto the ice.

When it’s all said and done, they make a comeback in the third period and win three-one off of Kent’s assist to Jack’s goal, netting him a hatty on his very first game on home ice. They pile into the dressing room for the post-game media scrum and showers. Jack’s actually smiling on camera, flushed and bright-eyed the way he only is after games – or really good sex. And well. Kent can’t really help the way he sidles up next to Jack and gives him the warm shaving cream towel of welcome while he’s in the middle of the trying to make some humble statement about scoring two power-play goals in less than a minute.

The guys are all laughing, the interview’s cut short, and everyone leaves happy.

***

The ratings for _Bitty’s Blend_ span higher than any other show on the Food Network during the month of October and into November – which is surprising to literally no one.

Except for Eric. Because apparently he’s not just humble, he _actually_ has very little faith in himself.

And _that_ surprises Kent.

“Seriously?” Kent asks around a mouthful of some sort of magical sandwich. “This is literally the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth – well. Almost. But it’s definitely the best sandwich I’ve ever had. And you’re doubting me? I’m hurt.”

“I’m not doubtin’ you, I’m doubtin’ _me_.” Eric sighs. “I’m – this ain’t the same as baking pies and tweeting about my crush on Jack.”

“Eric. Babe.” Kent swallows what’s in his mouth. “You know I’m bad at lying about food. And Jack’s the pickiest person either of us have ever met –”

He keeps talking over Jack’s indignant, “Hey!”

“– aside from maybe, like, Crosby. And I bet even _he’d_ like this sandwich. So why on Earth would you think you can’t cook anything aside from dessert?” 

“I didn’t say that!”

Kent shoots Eric a look. “I’m gonna call him. I’ll even schedule him a flight.”

Eric sighs. “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll do the Thanksgiving special.” He sounds all grumbly about it, but when Kent reminds him of the new pie recipe he’d been working on, Eric perks up a little bit. “Jack can be my taste-tester.” And, well, it is a maple thing. Jack’s always been hella picky about maple things, the Canadian snob.

It’s a normal conversation in terms of things they tend to talk about – which is probably why it feels so surreal when Jack’s phone rings and it’s Nadine.

Jack puts it on speaker. 

“ _Hi_ ,” she says after a beat, “ _Can you all hear me?_ ”

Jack, Eric, and Kent all chorus, “Yes.”

“ _Great! I just wanted to let you know that I received word from Dr. Sheffield about your surrogacy process. It looks like things are going very well,_ ” she says. They all shoot each other looks; Kent’s heart might pound right out of his chest. “ _According to the blood work and the ultrasound, it looks like she is a little over nine weeks along in the pregnancy_.”

Kent can’t hear much over the sounds of his own cheers, but Jack and Eric are doing it too, and Nadine’s laughing, so he figures it’s alright.

“ _Now,_ ” she continues, once they’ve all settled just a bit, “ _it’s a little earlier than we usually tell our intended parents, but I know you boys will be busy in the upcoming week what with Thanksgiving and games and all so I thought I’d go ahead and spill the beans._ ”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Jack says fervently and – oh. Those are tears in his eyes. He’s clutching the phone so tightly his knuckles are colorless, and he looks a little bit like he’s in shock, even when Eric goes back to hopping up and down and squeezing on Jack’s bicep. “So much, oh my god. _Merci_.” 

“ _That’s all I’ve got for you for now_ ,” Nadine says, “ _Congratulations!_ ”

Eric and Kent thank her as well before they hang up, but then it’s a free-for-all snuggle pile full of exclamations in English and French and Eric’s weird southern expressions. Kent can’t stop kissing Jack, but he can’t really kiss Jack around his grin, and Eric’s nuzzling up against his neck and pressing kisses and smiles into his skin.

“Oh, my god,” Kent says, squeezing the life out of both of them. “We’re gonna be dads!” The excitement carries on throughout dinner and post-dinner cleanup and post-cleanup lounging on the sofa in the den. 

Then he freezes. “Wait, fuck, what are we going to have them call us?”

Immediately, Jack says, “I want to be called _Papa_.” 

“Very traditional,” Kent mutters to himself, and then, “Eric, do you have any ideas?”

“’Daddy’ is pretty southern,” Eric admits, squeezing Kent tighter around the middle, “I’d like to stick to my roots, if that’s okay with y’all.”

Kent draws him in even closer and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Of course it’s okay,” he says, meeting Jack’s eyes over Eric’s head. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“But what does that leave you with?” Eric asks, nearly pouting.

“Dad, Da, Pa, Pops, Ta, ” he starts listing, “Uh. My dad’s half-Onondaga, we called him _K’niha_. Then again Carly, Mason, and Kieran still call me ‘Kee.’” Kent shrugs. “I might just wait and see what the kids end up calling me.”

Both Eric and Jack shrug, and Kent really doesn’t care – because _whatever_. They’re going to have a little kid: they’re going to have this – actual little human with toes and fingers and murky eyes and a toothless grin – in just a handful of months. 

***

And the months fucking _fly_.

Kent and Jack spend their time split between readying the house with Eric and playing some really damn good hockey with each other. They get fairly regular updates from Nadine and FaceTimes from Eric anytime he wants to pick something out for the nursery whenever they’re on roadies. They’re on a three-game, seven-day trip across Canada when Eric calls to ask about the theme they want to go with, and on a five-day trip to the northeastern US when he asks if he should learn how to knit instead of just getting a special baby blanket made.

Which is how Kent and Jack find him – surrounded by piles of yarn in soft pastels in the nursery when they get home from that last stretch, muttering about needle sizes and proper gauge in a surreal way, like some alternate universe Eric “Bitty” Zimmermann who knits stuff instead of manifesting pies. 

“Oh!” Eric says, stiffening with surprise and then melting with a smile before he says, “Hello, my loves.” He moves the iPad to the side, on top of a truly heinous color of fuzzy green, and gets on his tip-toes to press kisses to both of their cheeks.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Kent comments, feeling relaxed for the first time since he’d _left_.

“I,” Eric starts, bending to pick up a patch of fabric hanging off of a long, thick metal needle, “have mastered the art of castin’ on.” Then he gestures around to one of the piles and says, “I’m still a little scared to try castin’ off, though, so I just bought some more needles to tide me over. But now that y’all are home, so y’all can help me!”

Which is how Kent and Jack learn how to knit after an exhausting seven hour plane ride at two in the morning.

Somehow, Kent actually _really_ gets into it. He can make the patches look exactly the way Eric’s do – and of course, he takes a silent thrill in realizing that his look better than Jack’s. But his smugness is palpable so of course Jack starts pouting and then sets his own needles aside to lie back on a pile, his feet pressed against Kent’s hip and hand curled around Eric’s thigh. Between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.

Eric snickers. “Y’all have a nice trip?”

Kent hums an affirmative. “Winning’s always nice. But. I think we were both just ready to get home.”

The comment makes Eric smile, even if it’s faint and his eyes are still focused on the knit-purl-knit-purl moss stitch pattern he’s making. “You hear from Nadine?” he asks.

Frowning, Kent says, “You know we’d tell her to wait ‘til we got home. Did you not get the email she sent to us? I thought you were CC’d.”

“Yeah, no,” Eric says, heading off Kent’s slight panic, “I got it. I just…thought maybe she might’ve called. I just wanna know what we’re havin’ already. Gettin’ antsy too. Wanna know if it’s a boy or a girl, but apparently they’re just gonna keep bein’ stubborn.”

And, yeah, Kent knows the feeling. Stubbornness is a trait they all have in common, though, so none of them can really make any guesses as to whose it is either. 

“You record the Valentine’s special yet?” Kent asks, fighting off a yawn. Jack’s light snores are definitely not helping the matter. That shit’s an audible sedative.

“Nah, that’s next week. Besides, I was wonderin’ if maybe you an’ Jack wanted to do a cameo.” Eric finishes his row and flips his work, starting on the other side in a purl-knit-purl-knit to counter the other side. “I need to order that wine we had from Nick’s on Broadway.”

The name rings a bell, even if Kent can’t quite place it.

“Our first date, darlin’,” Eric reminds him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Kent says, suffused with warmth at the memories that hit him like a hard check to the boards – deciding on a honeymoon destination, getting tipsy on raspberry white wine and the way Eric and Jack looked at each other _and_ him all throughout the meal. He feels himself going a little pink, blinks in return to the smirk Eric doles out. “I, uh. That was – a good night.”

He remembers Eric’s hands on him and Jack’s mouth, more recent memories layered over that first time with the two of them all those years ago, but no less potent.

Eric teases, “Oh, only ‘good,’ huh?”

Kent drops his needles, leans over to cradle Eric’s cheek for a deep kiss. “The best,” Kent says, lips still brushing Eric’s, “Definitely top five.”

Humming, between a smile and another kiss, Eric says, “That charm doesn’t work on me, Mr. Parson,” even though his arms come up to wrap around Kent’s shoulders, fingers twining in the hair at his nape. “It’s been a while since you kissed me like that, though.”

“Like what?” Kent asks innocently, doling out another. 

“Like _that_ ,” Eric breathes.

“Always kiss you like this.”

Eric’s voice wavers when he whispers, “Fuck,” and then he’s tugging Kent closer, lying back on the floor and dragging Kent down with him. Jack’s still snoozing away but it doesn’t prevent Kent or Eric from sharing slick, filthy kisses. Kent slips his hand up Eric’s shirt to play at his skin, always so soft and warm where he’s palest, but when he yawns into the kiss, Eric pulls away to say, “Don’t go startin’ somethin’ you can’t finish,” with a quirked brow.

Kent laughs softly, suddenly sleepy from the time, day, warmth, exhaustion, _whatever_. “Sorry, babe. It’s been a long day.” 

“You know, we should _probably_ be having as much sex as possible,” Eric says, sounding very matter-of-fact as he pushes at Kent’s shoulders. Once they’re upright, he checks his abandoned work, checking to make sure no stitches have slid off of the needles. “Get some fun practice with not-sleeping before the baby comes and we’re all zombies.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Jack concedes from a few feet away, rubbing at his eyes and yawning hugely, “but can we start it some other time?”

Giggling, Eric stands and offers a hand up for Jack. “Sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m just really tired.” 

Eric offers a hand to Kent too, who would actually be perfectly content to sleep on the yarn piles, and Kent bonelessly goes.

***

Kent’s second only to Jack in the points race this season, and by April – only one trimester left! – they’ve got the house all ready, three anxious almost-grandmothers calling every other day for updates, and Eric’s birthday to plan between the fucking _playoffs_. Eric insists that he doesn’t mind not being able to celebrate on the exact day, but it’s the last birthday any of them will have childless; Kent wants to make a big deal out of it; Jack just wants to focus on playoffs and celebrate after. Which is _not cool_ in Kent’s opinion.

Just because he’s not one hundred percent focused on winning the Stanley Cup again – which, yeah, would be pretty fucking sweet for their first season playing together again since the Q – doesn’t mean he’s _not_ focused on winning the Stanley Cup again.

Honestly, Kent’s a little tired of being judged.

Which is probably why he almost completely snaps.

He takes a deep breath, feeling pinned beneath Jack’s eyes and crossed arms as he cools down on the stationary bike following Game 3 in Round 2 against the Stars at the AAC. He takes another. And another.

Kent wants to say the first biting remark that comes to his head – the _do you really care about hockey more than your husband?_ or maybe _so hockey’s gonna come before the kids too, eh?_ – but he takes a fourth deep breath in as many minutes and _doesn’t_. 

Finally, he’s able to power off the machine, step down and follow Jack toward the showers. Once they’ve dried off and packed up, bussed to the airport, flown back home in their game day suits, they head for Jack’s truck in the McCarran lot and head home. Just before they get out, idling in the garage next to Kent’s Ferrari for a moment, Kent says, “We should talk.”

Jack cuts the engine.

If Kent takes a little pleasure in seeing the worried crease between Jack’s brows, it’s no one’s business but his own. And maybe Eric’s.

Slowly, Jack says, “Okay,” and one hand twitches toward the door handle before he asks, “Inside or…?”

Kent sighs and takes the lead. After grabbing their gear bags and leaving them in the mudroom to air out, he heads toward the den. 

There’s a pair of socks and an empty glass with what looks to be watered down iced tea leaving a ring on the end table next to the super squishy couch, signs of Eric spending the evening alone after a day of filming while they were off playing hockey. Eric always sits in the corner, feet tucked under him with the afghan draped over his arms and legs and up around his chin. The table lamp is still on, which means he’d tried to wait up for them. 

It’s lonely; Kent’s heart aches.

Even though it’s late and he’s exhausted and hungry, Kent sits on the couch and waits while Jack slowly lowers himself down onto the middle cushion. (Which. That’s actually closer than Kent had anticipated. Good sign.) 

“If this is about Eric’s birthday –” Jack starts.

Kent makes a face. “Just – hear me out first. Please.”

Jack nods.

“I’ve noticed,” Kent starts, trying to keep himself from the accusatory tone that Jack always seems to bring out in him, “Eric has a little bit of trouble asking for things. Well. Things _not_ in the bedroom, anyway. He’s always putting everyone else before him and, yeah, it’s part of his, like, character on a fundamental level, but. Sometimes we’ve gotta put him first.” 

Kent can feel his eyes prick, his throat tightening without permission. He swallows hard, rubbing at the base of his throat until the feeling goes away. 

“I don’t – he gives so much of himself away already, and it’s only gonna get worse with the kids, so. We’ve gotta give him something in return.”

Understandably, Jack’s eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is pinched. “I. I don’t…”

“I’m not saying you don’t, like. Care about him. Seriously, Zimms, I’m just.” Kent heaves a breath and rubs at his eyes. “Sometimes you’ve gotta look between the lines, ya know?” He continues on when Jack still looks confused, defiant. “When he says, ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ he means it maybe eighty percent of the time. _This_ isn’t one of those times.”

“But it’s…he never seemed upset before,” Jack says, looking a little lost. “The other playoff runs…”

Kent’s smile feels a little watery. “Babe, he’d never try to get between you and hockey.” He, hesitantly, rests his hand on Jack’s thigh and – thank _god_ – it doesn’t take long at all for Jack to place his over it, twine their fingers. “I’m not even saying we need to do a big blowout; we just need to make it special, make sure he knows we think about him even if we can’t always be around.” 

Jack squeezes Kent’s hand and Kent takes it for what it means, sits silently, solid and there while Jack mulls it over.

After a handful of moments, Jack huffs a near-silent laugh. His eyes are crinkled around the edges – wry.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jack says, shaking his head, looking fondly at Kent, “just. We’ve come a long way, eh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Kent agrees with a grin, “We’re talking like adults instead of having a knock-down, drag-out. I’m pretty proud of us.”

Jack sighs, still looking a little amused. “Alright,” he says, giving Kent’s hand one last squeeze before it slips away, “Let’s get to bed. Bet he’s missing us.”

Kent catches Jack’s hand at the top of the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hmm?” Jack looks worn completely out, leaner than usual since he’s been cranking out the points during playoffs and Coach has him double shifting consistently at random.

“Nothing,” Kent says. “I love you.”

When they make it into the bedroom, Eric’s conked out and nested in every single pillow and blanket they keep in their room. Though he wants to, like, run his fingers through Eric’s hair and wake him up for kisses, Kent refrains and follows Jack into the bathroom so they can go through their bedtime routines as quietly as possible. 

Slipping into the sheets on one side, he maneuvers a couple of pillows from behind Eric to take his rightful place as the big spoon. (Well. In theory. Somehow he usually ends up being cuddled to death by Eric and Jack curved around him, drooling into Eric’s pillow and blowing his rank-ass morning breath in his face, sometimes even if he doesn’t start off in the middle.) Eric makes soft, sleepy sounds, clutching tightly at the pillow in his arms as Jack tries to take it away without waking him up. His somnambulant protest dies out when Jack presses a kiss to Eric’s hair and Kent can’t help but nuzzle closer, pressing a kiss of his own just behind Eric’s ear. 

Between a blink and a deep breath, Kent falls asleep.

***

“I feel like we’ve done a really good job going out there and getting some good results,” Kent says, trying to keep himself from peeking over at where Jack’s giving similar non-answers on their plans for the conference finals, “It’s chess, not checkers. I think we have a good group of guys and, uh, we can go the distance, you know? We just need to keep playing our hockey, capitalize on our scoring chances by securing the puck, and dictate the game the way we know how, you know?”

“Thank you, Kent Parson, and congrats on a successful second round.”

“Thanks, Pierre.”

Kent skates over to tap Jack on the ass before he heads down the tunnel. He’s not really expecting the grin that Jack shoots him over his shoulder, but he’s mildly sure the camera doesn’t catch the wink Kent gives him in return. 

He is _so_ getting laid tonight.

Well, maybe. He wants to, but like. He’s also kind of looking forward to falling face-first into bed and not moving for twelve-plus hours and he’s absolutely positive that Jack feels the same way. They’ll go out tonight and have probably just a single beer with the guys before making like an old married couple and going the fuck home.

Not even two steps into the dressing room and Rader’s calling out, “O captain, my captain!” and standing on the bench with his arms raised. 

“Too soon, asshole,” Kent yells, throwing a dirty, balled-up sock at Rader’s face, “you’re gonna jinx us.”

Just to be safe, Kent raps his knuckles against the bench. It’s probably wood beneath the paint, right?

Whatever.

Jeff’s actually the one to rally the troops and work out the where and when for post-round celebrations, but Kent goes along with it, and Jack doesn’t look like he wants to fake his own death to get out of it, so he’s going to count it as a win.

The bar lounge they go to is dark, but thankfully not smoky or dank, which isn’t exactly par for the course when Rader’s the one who coordinates shit. He’s more of a fan of pool halls with free beer on Thursdays, where he can hit on college chicks and push the rookies toward girls that are out of their leagues instead of in a completely different ballpark. But _this_ is the kind of place that has fancy cocktails and complex desserts.

“Dude,” Kent says, “Where’d you even find this place?”

“Instagram,” Rader says sagely. “Maryam, my Persian queen, showed me.” 

Jeff, somehow, already has a drink in hand. “She’s so _pretty_ ,” he says, pinching at Rader’s cheek. “How’d _you_ bag her, man, I don’t get it.”

Kent moves Jack out of the way before Rader can retaliate, and flags down a bartender as they all split into a few tables in the back. He’s studying a menu, trying to see what desserts exactly this place covers, whenever Jack says, “Hey. You think Bitty’d like this place?”

Squeezing Jack’s thigh, Kent says, “He’d definitely want to try it out – Ooh! They’ve got cheesecake.” 

Jack frowns. “Empty calories.”

“I think at this point, _any_ calories’ll help.” Kent’s been _ravenous_ lately; Playoffs kind of suck the life out him. Well. Out of everyone. “Jack, don’t judge me, please. I’ll let you feed me as much chicken and rice and steak and veggies as you can when we get home.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Jack concedes. Then he reaches for the menu. “Let me see that.”

Squirming in his seat, Kent forks it over and watches with glee while Jack scans for a dessert that he deems worthy. Nobody opts to sit with them which, hey, is alright by Kent, because it means that by the time they’re sipping on champagne and eating a mix of chocolate covered fruits and cheesecake, they’re mostly left alone and able to talk unselfconsciously about their plans for Eric’s upcoming birthday. Jack always gets a little looser when he’s thinking about Eric – not hockey, for once – and Kent loves to watch the transformation.

It starts in his shoulders, in the high, rosy arch of his cheekbones, maybe even the way his hair falls over his forehead. Kent doesn’t know, really, but he just knows he likes it. He likes this _soft_ Jack. 

Almost – but not quite out of nowhere – Kent asks, “What about Blake?”

“What?” Jack asks after swallowing his sip, “Who? Blake who?”

“Our baby,” Kent answers, “The first one, anyway. First name, I mean. D’you like Blake?”

“Blake…Blake Zimmermann.” 

Warmth blossoms across Kent’s cheeks and shoulders; Kent loves it. He hopes that Jack and Eric do too. “It works for both a boy and a girl, too,” Kent adds, covering Jack’s hand as he babbles, watching Jack’s face, “Like. Since the baby’s still sitting funny, or whatever it was Nadine said. I mean. I know Eric had been talking about gender-neutrality and stuff, and don’t get me wrong, I like the way he says Tyler, but it makes me think of Seguin, ya know? So what if we did Blake Tyler?”

All Jack says is, “Oh.”

But it looks like a _good_ oh, thank god. “Yeah,” Kent says. “Just a thought. I don’t know.”

“No, no,” Jack says, a tiny smile edging onto his mouth, “I like it, I think. Let’s tell Eric when we get home.”

“Isn’t he still in LA?”

“Oh,” Jack says, deflating a bit, “Right.” 

“We can Skype him, can’t we? Or FaceTime, whatever. You know he’ll pick up, even if it’s just to say he can’t talk yet.”

Even though he’s clearly reassured, Jack still sounds a little dejected when he says, “Yeah.”

Kent squeezes Jack’s hand again and pops another chocolate covered strawberry into his mouth.

Later, when they’re back home and in bed, Eric’s voice is only a little bit tinny through the speaker when he accuses, “ _You’re never gonna get over that Blake Griffin crush, are ya?_ ”

Honestly, that hadn’t even crossed Kent’s mind, but he knows he’s coloring at the words. He covers his face and groans into his palms. “He’s just so talented!” Jack pokes him in the side and then wobbles the phone back into Kent’s direction. Squirming, Kent says, “But, no, seriously. I promise it had nothing to do with that.”

“ _Uh huh,_ ” Eric drawls.

He knows he’s pouting, but… “I’m serious,” Kent whines. 

“ _Alright, alright_ ,” Eric says, “ _Don’t get your undies in a bunch, sugar, I’m just teasin’ ya._ ” His sigh makes the line crackle a little bit, but his voice is fond when he says, “ _I like it, though. Blake Tyler_.”

Kent deflates, relieved. “Sweet,” he says, and then, because Jack looks somehow even more morose, “When are you coming home, babe?”

“ _Flyin’ home on Thursday. We’ve got so much more filmin’ to do_ ,” Eric says, “ _but thank heavens I ain’t the one cookin’ this time around._ ” 

Guest judging is something relatively new for Eric, but he seems to be taking to it fairly easily. From what Kent can tell, the other judges are charmed if not impressed by his level knowledge for his age and informal training. Like yeah, maybe he’s relatively young compared to the other well-rounded chefs, but Eric knows his shit. He commands respect. And he can make even the harshest of criticisms sound nice, so really, there’s no way this is going to be his only offer.

By the time they’ve hung up after muttering schmoopy shit to each other, Jack’s already asleep and Kent’s just about ready to follow him right into it. Even though they were totally supposed to have sex. But, eh, whatever. Sleep might be just as good anyway.

***

There’s not a lot that Jack and Kent are able to make without Eric’s supervision, but the cake they make together is…probably edible.

“It’s like – really, really lumpy. How did that even happen?” Kent pokes at the puffy size with the end of his wooden spoon. It doesn’t deflate or anything; he breathes a sigh of relief. “It looks like a shitty soufflé. Eric’s going to disown us.”

Jack laughs, this low, rumbly thing. “It’s still better than our last attempt, _ouais?_ ”

Frowning, Kent says, “I’m not sure that this is much of an improvement.” He crosses his arms and then scratches at his head, wondering what they might be able to do to fix it. “D’ya think we could add some chocolate shavings? Sprinkles?”

“Eh, I think it’ll look okay once we frost it. We’re kind of running out of time.” 

Right. Shit. 

Though he’d like to figure out where they went wrong, Kent knows he needs to hurry up and go get dressed before they need to leave. His pants are a little looser than he’s used to, which means he’s skinner than he’d thought, but he’s pretty sure that Eric’ll approve of the color scheme he’s got going. The slacks are a creamy tan ( _not_ khaki, Jack) with a matching suit-jacket, but the shirt is a pale bluish-green that sort of matches his eyes. 

Or maybe his eyes are trying to match the shirt. 

Sully’d always called him a chameleon back when they were younger because of how they never really stay the same color. Rude.

“Two buttons or three?” Kent asks, poking his head into the walk-in closet where he can see Jack struggling into his pants. Shirtless. “God, that’s not even _fair_ , come on, Jack.”

Jack’s not smirking, so Kent knows he’s not doing it on purpose, but it’s still _terrible_. “Uh, two?”

“But Eric likes my chest hair…”

“ _What_ chest hair? You have like three of them.” Jack chirps, and then: “No, really, Suzanne doesn’t need to see either of us...making eyes at you.”

“Oh, so my tits make you hot?” Kent says – only he giggles halfway through and kind of ruins the sexy smolder he had going. Jack’s just rolling his eyes, slipping on a crisp, white button down, so Kent redoes that last button and then heads back to the bathroom to fuss with his hair.

There’s nothing to be done about the (admittedly patchy) stubble, but Kent tries to neaten it as much as possible before he gives himself a spritz of cologne. 

Jack calls from the bedroom, “You ready?” and Kent smirks at himself in the mirror before answering.

Downstairs, the cake is frosted, Jack’s got his tie done up immaculately and keys jangling between nimble fingers. One of Kent’s favorite things about Jack is his inability to do things halfway, so when he looks Kent up and down, he knows it’s okay to take it in exactly the way he’s thinking; Kent’s getting _hella_ laid tonight. 

Well. Okay, they all three are. But still.

Kent keeps his hands to himself on the drive to _Nick’s on Broadway_.

Honestly, he’s never been happier about the fact that they’d agreed to keep the house in Providence. Because this is _perfect_.

Suzanne glances up subtly enough to keep Eric from turning around – gesticulating emphatically as he tells his mother some story or another – but it’s, to Kent’s surprise, Coach, who outs them, saying, “These friends of yours, Junior?”

Eric turns and –

His hands immediately go to his mouth, face splitting with surprise as Kent and Jack finally make it through the doorway and into the private room. “Oh, my _god – Y’ALL_ ,” Eric says in a strangled shout. He already has tears gathering up in his huge brown eyes, cheeks flushed with either emotion or the sparkling wine. Rushing them, Eric slings his arms around both of their necks and takes a moment to sob out a, “Hi,” as they wrap their arms around him.

Kent’s a little taken with the way Eric fits in his hold, the heat of Jack beside him.

Sure, they’d argued over it, but when Jack meets Kent’s eyes over the top of Eric’s head, he’s pretty sure all that trouble was more than worth it. 

Eric kisses them both, just chastely, and grabs their hands, ushering them into chairs that have mysteriously appeared on either side of the one he’d been sitting in. He’s looking around a little wildly, eyes narrowing at his parents as he says, “Y’all set me up,” before he devolves back into almost delirious-sounding laughter. “I wasn’t expectin’ to see y’all ‘til Saturday. Oh, my god.”

“Surprise,” Jack says, smiling so softly that even Kent wants to kiss him. Eric beats him to the punch, though, and Kent can’t help but grin at the sight. It’s quick, though, because Eric’s always been hesitant about PDA, plus there’s the fact that his mother is actually snapping pictures with her iPhone.

Dinner’s a pretty chill affair, all things considered. Coach keeps the football talk to a minimum – only because Jack pretends to love it – and doesn’t seem to be able to stop smiling beneath his mustache. Eric’s just vibrant, beaming constantly at anyone and everyone, clearly drunk on life. 

And alcohol. He’s definitely drunk on that too.

“Oh, Mama!” Eric says, epiphany written across his face, “I cannot believe I forgot to tell y’all! We decided on our baby’s name.” 

Both Coach and Suzanne perk up, and once Bitty finally says it, Coach looks so soft that Kent’s honestly worried about the guy melting into his chair and Suzanne’s just wordlessly exclaiming, all loud and southern, clutching Eric and rocking him back and forth as she just says, “Oh, my baby’s havin’ a baby!”

It’s all very hilarious, and touching, and Kent thinks Jack might even have a tear in his eye.

And, yeah, okay, Kent’s definitely not any better off with the tear tracks he’s sporting, but still.

Emotions.

It’s kind of great. Totally worth the million-hour flight they’re going to have in two days.

Later on, Jack leads the way into the house, still just as light and airy and cozy as it was the very first time Kent stepped foot into it all those years ago. It still smells faintly of the cake that’s sitting on the island counter, and a little bit like weed, hilariously enough, which means –

“SURPRISE!!”

Laughing, Kent and Jack grab a hold of Eric who looked like he was about to jump straight out of his skin.

“Oh, my _god_ –” Eric turns and hits both Jack and Kent in the arms and exclaims, “ _Y’all!_ ”

Jack tugs Eric in, kissing the top of his head while Eric blubbers a little bit into his shirt. Kent’s still close, which is probably why he’s able to hear the, “Happy birthday, _mon amour_ ,” Jack says quietly, and Eric’s responding, “Thanks, sweetpea.” 

When Eric resurfaces, his eyes are a little red and he’s smiling so widely that his cheeks dimple. To the room at large he says, “Y’all, I don’t even know what to say!”

At that, the room explodes into chirps from Jack and Eric’s old teammates. After half the people have come by to hug Eric and wish him a happy birthday, Kent disappears into the kitchen to find Shitty and Lardo.

“Hey, guys,” Kent says, and then, noticing the brief tension, “Uh…am I interrupting something?”

“Nope,” Larissa says, settling the sloppy cake he and Jack made onto the counter between a spread of all of Eric’s favorite fruits and cheeses, “What’s up, Parson?”

“Just wanted to say thanks for coming by while we were gone, setting everything up, and all.”

Shitty claps him on the shoulder. “No problem, brah. You guys are family.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, smiling softly. They kind of are, aren’t they? It’s kind of weird to think about, really, because Kent’s family now is already more people than he’d have thought he would have this time like five years ago. “Right. Well, you two don’t have to play host or anything. Go mingle, or whatever.”

Larissa snorts. “Are you seriously getting choked up right now? Weak.”

“Shut up.”

“Nah,” Shitty says, immediately rounding the island to wrap Kent up in a huge bear hug. “Come here, brother. Feel those feelings.” 

They’re literally the same height. Why the fuck does Kent feel so small? Maybe it’s the whole…full-bodied thing? Honestly, Kent has no idea. He just knows that this dude gives great hug. It’s like a deep breath of fresh air mixed with the heady buzz of a couple of beers. Or something.

Whatever.

“I’m just...really grateful for you guys,” Kent eventually ekes out. It’d be less painful in the long run to just do what Shitty says, right? “And I know Eric was half-joking when he said it, but I really do hope you have kids so our kids have cousins that aren’t just my brother’s kids. Not that they aren’t awesome --”

“Uh oh,” Lardo says. “We’re just gonna go ahead and…” 

She turns to go do something and Kent can’t see what it is over Shitty’s shoulder where he’s still getting the life squeezed out of him (like in a _nice_ way) -- but then he hears the pop of a cork and the sound of a glass being filled.

“Alright,” she says, nudging Shitty’s arm, “Stop trying to cop a feel.” Then to Kent: “Here.”

It’s...a tequilla shot. No salt or lime in sight. 

Larissa’s raised eyebrow says it all; Kent’s not one to turn down a challenge.

Shitty finally releases Kent, who takes the shot of Patrón like a _goddamned champ_ , and then clasps him heavily on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Parson. Bitty was right about you.”

And before Kent can ask what the hell that means, Larissa’s pushing him out of the kitchen and back into the festivities. 

After a semi-hazy scan, Kent finds the birthday boy wrapped up in the arms of Ransom and Holster. Jack’s engaged in a conversation with a sleepy-eyed guy holding the hand of a girl who’s gesticulating wildly with her other hand. There’s a pair listening in, opposite of them, laughing when the girl finishes her story. Jack gives a soft grin and then meets Kent’s eyes over their heads. 

Kent doesn’t quite smile back, but he’s feeling all kinds of mushy and fond and _grossly in love_.

Most of the invitees were Bitty and Jack’s teammates from college with a few Falcs sprinkled in with another star chef or two. Kent definitely feels a little bit out of place but then he catches sight of Steph and Liv, and breathes out a slightly overwhelmed sigh of relief.

Jeff had elected to stay in Vegas to sleep during their rest period between the first round and Division Finals and Kent doesn’t really blame him. They have one practice and it’s optional, but most guys will still be on the ice for at least a couple of days for the next week -- Kent and Jack included. Since it looks like they’ll more than likely be playing the Schooners for the Division, Kent’s using this mini-vacation to try to pack some more weight on and to celebrate his personal team’s victory: Blake Tyler Zimmermann, due on June 6th if all goes according to plan.

“Lookin’ a little lost in your head there, Parse,” Steph says, eyes bright and smile brighter. “Need a drink?”

Liv’s grinning too; she pokes him in his ribs and then winds an arm around his middle in greeting.

“God, it’s good to see you guys,” he says, “Did you see Anna Olson’s here?” 

They gossip for a bit and drink some champagne, munching on treats catered by the small patisserie Bitty had worked for way back when. Well. It’s not so small _now_ , because pretty much anything Eric touches blossoms into the biggest and best version of itself.

Kent introduces Steph and Liv to Lardo and Shitty and isn’t surprised at all when they exchange numbers before Kent’s even made his excuses to move onto the next group. To be polite, he makes his rounds, makes sure that Coach and Suzanne have had enough to drink and eat before they decide to head off to the in-law suite for bed. He refills champagne glasses and small talks with about fifty people before he stumbles upon Alexei Mashkov in the kitchen.

“Is that -- are you eating one of Eric’s pies?” Kent asks, aghast.

“Bitty says is okay,” Mashkov retorts, holding the pie tin closer to his chest while gesturing at the tin foil on the counter with his fork. “Has my name and everything, _krysa_.”

Sure enough, it says, “Tater <3 B” in Eric’s cutesy handwriting. It crinkles in Kent’s fist.

“Why are you even here?” Kent sneers. 

Mashkov feigns hurt. “Am one of B’s closest friends!”

“ _Are you?_ ”

“Oh, Kenny, lay off, would you?” Jack says, half-grinning from where he’s leaning against the doorway. “He was invited. I promise.”

Kent frowns, folding his arms. “He’s the _enemy._ ”

Jack approaches, prises the crumpled ball of aluminum foil from his hand, and tosses it into the trashcan. He wraps his arms around Kent’s middle and says something over Kent’s shoulder to Mashkov, something like, “Play nice,” to which Mashkov replies an indignant, “Am always nice, Zimmboni!” 

“Why is the Falcs’ captain here, in our kitchen, eating _our_ pie?”

Laughing lightly, Jack kisses Kent’s forehead. “He’s our friend, Kenny.”

“We could very well end up playing him for the Finals!” Kent is _aghast_. Appalled. Absolutely horrified at his boys’ choice in friends. 

“Is like you forget we teammates before you even come back,” Mashkov says around a mouthful. “Mmm. I’m tell Zimmboni if he don’t marry B, I will, so they get marry in Vegas before our game.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but doesn’t loosen his grip around Kent. It’s like he doesn’t trust him to be civil or something. 

“Uh huh,” Jack says. (And maybe Kent’s okay here, just listening to the rumble of his voice and the steady beat of his heart. Alright, so this is just one of those long hugs that Bittle usually initiates. Kent won’t turn it down or be the one to call Uncle.) “We’d already been engaged since my graduation, pretty much.”

They bicker on for a bit, chirping each other and laughing, and eventually he finesses a few more jars of blueberry preserves out of Jack before he finally goes to give his goodbyes to Eric.

The crowd’s thinned out a little bit since Kent had last made his rounds and all that’s left is Shitty, Lardo, Holster, and Ransom.

Kent’s...sleepy, but happy to see Bitty all lit up and blushing. It doesn’t look to be like it’s just from the champagne (or the wine from dinner) but from the intimate company of his very closest friends. He hears the tail end of a story and watches the way Eric laughs, nose scrunched and burying his face in his hands, and feels a little bit like he got crushed into the boards.

Jack leans on him, arms wrapped around his middle and chin resting on his shoulder. “He looks happy, _non?_ ”

Nodding, because he doesn’t quite trust his voice not to break, Kent thinks a victorious, _I fucking told you so_ but doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t actually want to hurt Jack.

Though it’s late, they all stay sprawled or cuddled across the living room furniture: Holster (or Ransom?) is sitting on the floor with Ransom’s (Holster’s?) legs bent over his shoulders from where he’s sitting on the loveseat with an afghan wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Shitty has his head in Jack’s lap and his feet in Larissa’s, and he keeps gesticulating wildly enough to nearly hit Kent’s bare foot. 

Kent has the recliner and a sleepy Bitty in his lap, half wrapped around him but still upright enough to huff a laugh into Kent’s neck when Shitty says something outlandish, which is often.

The coffee table is cluttered with glasses, cans, and cups, empty plates littered with crumbs from the lumpy birthday cake that Eric cried about, but Kent wouldn’t trade any of this -- not even the hangover that’s already throbbing behind his eyes -- for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](http://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com)! feel free to drop an ask or shoot me a message <3


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